#he stumbles almost in a daze to the edge and its like the phantoms of Nerd and Fea are calling him forward. Maglor turns around and screams

[youareunbearable]

hummm I am in the mood for some Maedhros Angst

[di-kut]

Baar Bal Runi: Chapter Two

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader

Words: 4k

Summary: (Body Swap AU) You wake after a terrible few days on the mysterious green planet, disoriented and confused. At first you can’t make sense of what is happening, but when you do, reality is worse than what you could have imagined.

Rating: T (I believe?) 

Tags: body swap, force sensitivity

A/N: Welp here it is. The moment we’ve all been waiting. This is just chaos and I make no apologies for it. Enjoy. 

I’m trying to find a planet.

Pieces. Fragments. Jagged shards of memories and thoughts. 

You feel like you’re being crushed.

I’m trying to find a planet. 

Your head is throbbing, your back aches. One of your arms is beginning to tingle and you realise you are lying on it. It’s too hot. Too cold. All at once. There are storm troopers which patrol outside your window, you’re sure you see the flash of their helmet lights as they pass. A helmeted face looks down at you against a blue sky. There’s shooting nearby. Dust everywhere. The blinking lights of a control panel. The smell of rich spices. The chanting of a thousand voices.

Maker, your head hurts. Your bed feels strange, too hard, and the room is so dark even behind closed lids. Pieces slip and tumble, chase each other around in your mind. Memories which must be dreams, you realise. Faces of people you have never known. Places you have never been. The sounds of the other children in the bunks around you. The smell of melting metal. A man and a woman, their memory filled with fear and aching. The eyes of the kid. Hundreds of people, the dead piled at your feet. It’s hard to differentiate the ones which are real and the phantoms of a forgotten dream. You realise you aren’t in your bed on Coruscant at all. Or in your quarters Batuu.

Maybe you should try a map.

Slowly, painfully. Things sharpen. The fog, the giant trees; larger than the petrified ones on Batuu. The darkness, never ending. The taste of fear in the back of your throat like bile. These are solid, more real.

The planet I’m looking for isn’t on any map.

 You jolt. The floor of the Razor Crest clangs beneath you. At first you think you must still be sick because the effort of trying to get off the ground is like fighting against the tide. And then you realise you are beneath something heavy. A crate in the hull must have fallen, you think dazedly. You can feel your left side throb, your ribs hurt like they’d taken a hit bad enough to break them. Your breathing is impossibly loud, echoing back at you, warm air condensing around your mouth.

 You open your eyes, but your peripheries are blacked out, and what you can see is hazy, like looking at static. You taste panic again, not some confused memory, but real and tangible. You manage to swing an arm up above your head and you suddenly know there is no crate holding you against the ground. As the world starts to grow clearer you realise you aren’t in the hull anymore. You can see the back of the co-pilot chair, the blinking dials of the controls. The darkness outside the ship. Did the Mandalorian move you to the cockpit? He was sick too. A hazy memory, his voice in your ear, asking you for help. I can’t lift you. You’re awake enough to know the feeling of his lips brushing against your ear is an illusion you must have created later. But you can’t place the scene in the jumbled mess of the last two days. Everything feels like it is swimming right at the edge of your grasp.

 You manage to roll over. “Kriff, what…”

 Something is wrong with your voice, or maybe your ears. It comes out so deep, it reverberates around your head and chest and echoes. Almost familiar. You lift your hands to try and touch your ears, touch anything, ground yourself from the strange floating feeling of being separate to the world around you.

 Gloves, you notice. The Mandalorian, he’s here. Your heart kicks up, until you realise it isn’t the Mandalorian’s hands reaching for you in the darkness of the cockpit, they’re your own. Wearing the Mandalorian’s gloves. And then your heart leaps into your mouth and you’re scrambling, the scraping sound of metal on metal, you slip, push yourself onto your hands and shuffle backwards. Something yanks at your neck and you swing, thinking someone has caught you by the collar, someone was here with you in the ship. But your hand closes around air and your head clangs hard against the wall of the cockpit. It rings, like a mallet on durasteel, but the sound is lighter, clearer. Except it’s all around you and your breath is fogging against your mouth and nose and you can see your peripheries but you’re wearing the Mandalorian’s helmet.

 “Mando!” You yell, hoarse and thick and deep. If your stomach weren’t empty you would heave again, just like outside that Maker cursed cave. “Mando!”

 You get up. You don’t know how. You don’t look – can’t look – at the gloves or the boots or the holster on your hip. It just doesn’t – your brain cuts out thought. You almost slip twice coming down the ladder to the hull. The gloves make you clumsy. The space feels too small, too tight. You slam your head on the way down, overestimating the height of the guard at the bottom. Part of you is glad for it, thinks it might wake you out of this nightmare.

 The crib is in the corner, still sealed. The child is crying inside it. You wonder how long he’s been in there. How long you have been lying unconscious on the floor of the cockpit. In the corner, by the door, there’s another shape. You want to look away. Feel like you might vibrate out of your skin. Maybe you already have. You want to run, go back to the cockpit, close your eyes. Hope it all goes away. But you know it won’t. So instead you edge forward, shuffling your feet sideways. You find yourself with a hand outstretched, ready to repel some sort of attack. You aren’t sure if you expect it to come from the slumped body in the corner or somewhere else. Hysteria is beginning to tinge the edges of your thoughts.

You aren’t sure what makes you ask, exactly. It’s an impossibility but – the arms stretched in front of you are not yours, and ceiling was never this close before, and your footsteps never this heavy. And there is a body slumped in the corner of the hull, head to the floor where you had fallen getting back to the ship. You are close enough now to see the sickly pallor of her skin, the shallow breathing, the sunken eyes. The braid of her hair has come mostly undone. A braid you know, and braid you remember tying nights before. A face you know, although it looks different, not facing it in the mirror. Abstract somehow. And even though the question is impossible. You don’t know why you ask, but you do.

 “M-Mando?”

 It doesn’t move – she. She doesn’t move.

 You inch closer, lean down. The knee pads you can now feel protect your knees from the worst of the hard flooring digging into you. The armour clangs as you move. You get close enough that you could touch her. You reach out, pull your arm back again. Your breath is fogging up the inside of the helmet. You can hear it in your ears and hissing through the modulator in the hull around you. Finally, you settle for a gentle nudge of the shoulder.

 “Mando?” You ask. Your voice is deep. It crackles through the Modulator. “Mando?”

 Suddenly her eyes are open. They stare blankly, misted with sleep, and then her face contorts into a snarl. Before you can get out of the way her hand strikes out, but its slow, groggy. Misses you completely. She shoves against your chest plate with her other hand. You try and grapple with her, grab her hands and stop her from hitting you, but you’re shaking too much to really stop her. She lets out a sound, something between a growl and a yell.

 “Mando!” You yell, and it comes out too harsh. Too loud. You sound angry, threatening, but you realise it too late. The woman in front of you is already reacting. “No, wait – “

 She swings hard. She doesn’t miss this time. Her hand hits the helmet with a splintering crack. You stumble backwards and get to your feet, dazed from the metallic ringing but otherwise unhurt. You almost trip on the cape around your shoulders. The woman is cradling her fist, the knuckles already beginning to swell and darken. But she doesn’t make a sound, she’s rolling, pushing herself up to stand. Her eyes slide across the room wildly until they land on the sealed crib. And then she looks back you. She looks almost feral now; lip curled, eyes wide. Still terribly silent. Quiet even when she had broken her hand on your helmet. She moves towards the crib, towards the weapons compartment you’d left open before you went out to search for the Mandalorian. You move back a couple of steps.

 “Just…” You don’t know what you’re meant to say. How you’re meant to put the pieces together. Say out loud what you know. Staring down at your own face staring back at you.

“Who are you?” She asks. Her voice is grating in its familiarity and you wince.

“I…”

“What did you do?” She snarls. Her eyes dart to the crib and back to you. Listens to the baby crying in the silence of the ship. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing! Nothing I swear by the Maker. Please, Mando, listen – “ 

“Who. Are. You.”

“I…” Nothing comes. Just blankness. Emptiness. It occurs to you that like this you probably don’t need to fear so much if the Mandalorian decides to settle this in a fight. This thought is chased quickly by the knowledge that he, she, would probably still win anyway. All the Beskar on you would amount to nothing anyway. “Mando, just trust me. Please. For – for five minutes.”

“No,” she, he, growls. 

“Your son –!” And she stops the step he had been about to take, straight at you. “You’re looking for his home! For his people. They… they… you don’t know where they are, or who they are. We…” Your voice drops to almost a whisper. Watch his reaction. “We’ve been looking for them for months. After… After Batuu.”

He goes completely still. So still you think he might have gone into shock. And then he ducks, snatches something from the edge of the weapons compartment he can reach. He lifts it in his good hand, the blade catches the light along its sharpened edge. His broken fist curls over the spot on his thigh where his blaster should be. Where it’s strapped to your thigh. You stay rooted to the spot and try and lift your hands slowly as you can, palms forward. He looks like he’s gone over the other side of furious, tipped into an eerie calm. He’s going slow, off to the side, and you realise he’s cutting you off from the child. You start to shake your head and he tenses. You stop moving again.

His voice is so calm. The knife is Beskar, the same colour as the armour you wear. “If you have hurt either of them – “

 You choke. “Mando, just stop! Stop! It’s me! Me! I don’t know what’s happening, okay? I can’t – I don’t – the cave, I can’t remember, I don’t know, just… but then I woke up in the cockpit, okay? I don’t get it either but something’s happened to us. We’re – we’re – “ You can’t get the words out. You swallow around them. “It’s me.”

 “Where did you get that armour from?” He moves around, cages the crib with his body. The crying quietens. “Tion meg be’aliit gar? Tion gar gai?”

 It takes several panicked moments for the change of language to filter through. He’s never spoken to you directly in Mando’a before, except – gotabor. You know it well enough from the soft sounds of him speaking to the child, swearing under his breath, muttering it as he works. It takes longer than it should to realise what’s happening. What he must be thinking.

 “What?” You almost trip. “No! No, I’m not a Mandalorian! It’s me!”

 His voice gets dark. You would never think your throat was capable of making such a threatening sound. “Ne shab’rud’niÖ.” He surges forward.

 “You smell like lemon after you shower!”

 He stops dead.

 “You never talk to me, you just go straight back to your quarters, but you pass my bed from the ‘fresher and I… I always notice.” You aren’t sure how you manage to find the space in your chest to feel the burn of embarrassment, admitting that guarded secret to him as he is about to gut you. Somehow the hot feeling of shame creeps up your cheeks. But he isn’t moving, so, “The little guy, he… he sleeps better. When you’re gone, I mean. He sleeps better if he can smell it. So sometimes I give him the bottle while you’re away and I put it back before you… before you come ho – back. Before you come back.”

 He stares at you like you’ve kicked him in the stomach. His calm, even face crumples into something like pain and he sucks in an uneven breath. Mutters a quiet word. “Me’ven?” You aren’t even sure you’re meant to hear it.

 “You don’t like the sweet flavoured rations bars, but I do. And you always give them to me.” Your heart is beating so hard against your chest you think you can feel it against the Beskar. Head spinning. “It annoys you when I forget to switch off the extra lights before I go to bed, but you never say anything. I try, I promise I do, but I just… don’t like the dark. And – And – And you – “

 “Stop.” Now he sounds like he’s been kicked in the stomach as well. “Stop!”

 So, you do. You keep your hands up, wait for him to move. You see everything play out over his bare face. Your face. You watch the same realisations which had occurred to you as they happen to him. The confusion, anger, abject horror. He looks down at the hands which are now his, but used to be yours, and drops the knife to the floor with a clatter. You think for a moment he’s going to keel over, so you jump forward. It only makes it worse. He throws up a hand between your bodies, makes a raw sound in the back of his throat. For the first time you watch him notice that the voice coming out of his throat is wrong. That everything is wrong. He stares at his empty hands, one swollen and blooming purple. Down at your body which he us now inhabiting, and then looks up at you. You know very well what he sees, so used to the sight of your dark, blurred reflection staring back at you in the Beskar. Your stomach lurches at the feeling of yourself looking back at you, the body you should be in being worn by a different soul.

 “How?”

 You deflate. The helmet drops to your chest plate. You think you might fall over yourself. The Beskar is just so heavy. Your voice cracks. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

 He stares at you, looking as sick as you feel. Then abruptly turns. He reaches for the controls on his armour, lets out a shuddering breath when they aren’t there, and ducks under the child’s crib to unlock the crib manually. He’s scooping the child out before its even fully opened, holding him up to his chest. The child grabs at his face and the collar of the jacket your body was still wearing, at the tangled mess of hair long since fallen out of its braid. You feel your legs buckle and manage to lower yourself onto a crate. The Mandalorian keeps his back to you, stares down at his son in his arms, making soft noises to the snuffling child. Your eyes are burning. Being knocked unconscious certainly didn’t make up for the three days before. You want nothing more than to curl up in your own bunk and close your eyes. Be somewhere that wasn’t here, stuck with the Mandalorian in his body, and him in yours. You want to say something, anything. Need to speak to him. But you have no words. All you can do is stare at the back of your own head.

 “H-How long…” He stumbles with the words.

 Yours hands are shaking. “I don’t know,” you whisper. You brace them against your helmet, try to hold yourself together. “I don’t know.”

 “My armour – my helmet – “ But he cuts himself off. He turns finally, walks blindly until he finds a crate to sit on as well. The child turns his head towards you and makes a noise. You lift your head and smile at him and then it drops immediately. He can’t see you. The Mandalorian’s voice sounds strangled. “The Way.”

 Of course, you think. The implications slam into you, close around your lungs. You have to wrap your arms around yourself to keep the sudden wave of distress at bay. A Mandalorian without his armour. He’s staring at you – not quite at you exactly. At a spot on his helmet. You can see the flurry behind his eyes, feel a flash of such distinct fear through your system which you know does not belong to you. It makes your shudder. The child shared his emotions with you willingly, but the Mandalorian was as impenetrable as his armour. But this – this was his. It makes you nauseous, the strength of it.

 “Mando…” His eyes – your eyes – dart down to the visor. “I won’t take it off,” you offer quietly. “I know what it means to you. I – I promise.”

 His face twists. “Does it matter? I’m not wearing it – I’m not – “

 “I haven’t seen you. That’s the rules, right? I haven’t seen you. And – and I won’t. I’ll never look. I swear by the Maker, Mando, I won’t I’ll – “

 “You have to eat. To sleep.”

“I don’t know, I can’t think, but I would never…” Yours hands are shaking so badly now its sending tremors up your arms. “Never do that. To you.”

“What does that matter?” He snaps. “W-What does any of that matter?”

There are tears burning the backs of your eyes. “What else do you want me to say?”

 He clenches his jaw. Stares at you. You feel a hot tear slid down your face. The Mandalorian doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring. A myriad of emotions chase each other across his face. You want to apologise; you want him to apologise. You are just so tired. The panic bleeds away into numbness, bleeds out through your shaking hands. You stand, you might say something, but you can’t remember what it is. You must cross the hull to your bed, climb into it. You hear the Mandalorian moving but you can’t bring yourself to care. You don’t remember falling asleep. It’s dreamless.

Mando wakes you, forces you up to eat. The hull is in complete darkness all around you, only the flashing emergency light above the carbonite chamber still on. The blinking orange allows you to see ghosts of movement, the shape of your own body walking through the ship, so unsettling you feel as though you can’t hold on to the reality of it. Mando helps you take the helmet off in the darkness, his hands brush over the spot on your neck where your pulse throbs through the skin, around the edges of the Beskar. When it comes off its like coming up for air. He hands you rations bars and lets the child sit in your lap, cooing quietly. Tells you it had been too long since you had eaten.

“We’re moving today,” he says when you finish.

“Where?” Your voice is coarse from disuse, burns your throat on the way out. You wonder how long he let you sleep.

“Away from here.”

He helps you back into the helmet and leaves you. Climbs back into the cockpit and takes the child with him. The engine powers up not long after. The further you get from the planet’s surface the easier it is to breathe. The tight twisted lump which had become so permanent under your ribcage finally loosens, dissipates when the hyperdrive whirs to life and the Crest is swallowed in a tunnel of light.

The planet you land on is uninhabited as well. The surface is grey, and a continuous rocky plane in every direction. He powers the engine down again as soon as you touch down. A dead planet, home only to the three of you. The galaxy feels so quiet, quieter and more lonely than you have ever known it. The Mandalorian moves around in the tiny upper deck, you hear footsteps between the cockpit and the captain’s quarters. Some occasional metallic clanging and scrapping. Just above you and yet untouchable. Wearing your skin. Living in your body. 

You know you are hiding from him. You cower in the hull, drift from your cot to the other side of the small space and back. Unable to face him. Unable to look at your own face looking back at you. The weight of the Beskar slowly becomes familiar, but never comfortable. You sleep often, never fully, always drifting in some in-between limbo. Mando reappears eventually, before you go to seek him out. He turns the lights out again and takes off the helmet and you eat in darkness. The third time you sit together in the blackness of the hull you hear him eat with you. A small tendril of relief works its way through you. The silence slowly eases into something – not companionable – but no longer harsh. It makes it better. Easier. In all the time you had known him never once had your relationship with the Mandalorian been a difficult one. The feeling of constant tension was a new one. Days slip by.

“We must be getting low,” you say. His voice without the helmet is different. It’s not deeper exactly but richer, fuller. Feels strange rumbling through your chest when you speak.

You can’t see him, but you can hear the rustling of his movement not far from you. “In what?” 

“Everything.” You hold the bar you’re eating up and then remember he can’t see it. Drop you hand into your lap again. “Food. Fuel. How much water do we have left?”

He doesn’t say anything, and you sigh. Lean back against the wall behind your crate. The horrible question has lingered between you, unsaid for days, but always on the tip of your tongue. So, you talk around it. Barely. The Mandalorian tries not to talk at all and you wonder if he hates the sound of your voice coming from his mouth, if it disturbs him as much as it does you. You talk about the child, about the planet outside, and now about the inevitable need to restock and refuel the Crest. Don’t ask what you will do if whatever has been done to you is irreversible. Don’t talk about how to fix it. 

“How long do we have before we need to leave?” You ask.

There’s rustling from his spot in the darkness. “A week. Maybe.”

“Where will we go?”

“Somewhere close. We don’t have enough to fuel to do another jump to hyperspace.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth. You hear Mando stand and move around the hull. He’s quicker on his feet now, getting used to moving through the darkness without his helmet. It makes you feel even more useless. You finish your paltry meal and pick up the helmet, suck in one last deep breath before you pull it back on. The weight of it on your neck and the pressure around your skull is immediate and suffocating. You have to close your eyes and count backwards from ten, clench your hands around the crate so tight it hurts. The light switches back on. 

For the first time he doesn’t disappear straight away, doesn’t immediately clamber up the ladder and back to his own separate world. He stands in front of the control panel, arms folded across his chest. Stares at you, eyes finding yours through the visor. You stare back. The longer you do, the less the woman’s face across from you feels like yours. Mando is still wearing the jacket you were in the cave, the same boots and trousers. The braid had long come undone. He looks tired. Your eyes caught the wrapping of bandage around the purpling fingers of his right hand. You need to shower; you need to talk to him. Relieving yourself was a problem you tried to put off for as long as you could, dealt with it only when you had to. Everything feels like an awful invasion of privacy, even just living. You hate that you are taking something away from him, hate that he’s taking it away from you. Hate that for the first time since you’d met him you felt as though you were disconnected from him. You feel something shift, an opportunity maybe, rise between you.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. The moment passes. The Mandalorian turns and climbs up the ladder and is gone.

Tion meg be’aliit gar? Which clan are you from?

Tion gar gai? Who are you?

Ne shab’rud’niÖ Lit: Don’t mess with me, extremely strong warning, usually followed by violence

Me’ven? Expression of disbelief (Huh?) 

Gotabor Engineer 

Tag List: @btillys​ @vercopaanir​ @sistasarah-sallysaidso​ @adikaofmandalore​

[squadrablog]

Now hear me out: (Non-binary reader x Hot Pants) Reader has a stand that can read people’s souls, sort of like an aura and gets curious about what they see on Hot Pants, extreme guilt (we all know what happened to her brother right?). They follow her around awhile through the race trying to see what up with her and slowly befriends her along the way. Reader also has no combat experience so H.P. has to save them a few times but she still lets them ride along with her because they’re nice.

Finally finished it! I keep it free of most major spoilers for Steel Ball Run. I also decided to make Hot Pants a trans woman as per my wife’s request, and both your and her conception of gender is like... affirmed but also contemporary with the time period and understood through the lens of what would be available in the 19th century.

Hot Pants x Nonbinary Reader

Ao3 Mirror Here.

Words: 8414

Warnings: Really light body horror (just Hot Pants’s Cream Starter), and mild violence + animal death. Light angst.

Under cut for length!

Something happened to you in the desert during that last stage.

You had barely escaped with your life from what you had rationalized was a sinkhole, or a sandstorm, or maybe one of those hallucinations of an oasis people have when they’re on the verge of dehydration, although you hadn’t been tricked into seeing water but rather large arching natural rock formations around a smooth bowl shaped crater. Before the ground swallowed the whole landmass up and buried you in a tomb of sand you managed to guide your horse away from the danger, but not unscathed.

While you and your horse had managed to avoid a terrible death with only minor physical injuries, after you had set up camp you started to realize that something was wrong with you. As you fed the fire you realized despite the growing warmth, your hands were shaking. You were in something of a daze, and you kept seeing things out of the corner of your eye, causing you to jump and yelp and call out to any possible intruders only to hear no answer. You could tell your horse was starting to get a bit jumpy too. Could she sense the strange presence as well?

No, she could not. She was reacting entirely to your stress. You were making her nervous... concerned for you, even? Yes… concerned. Was that too human an emotion for her to feel? Were you projecting onto her, anthropomorphizing her to cope with your current mental state? You were close to her, sure, and you could pick up on her body language better than anyone. But this feeling you had watching her now was so strange, as if you were looking past those usual outward displays you used to read her and were seeing something else. Almost as if she was whispering to you in a language only you could understand… or you were at least hearing an interpreter whisper for her.

You screamed again when you saw something in the corner of your eye. It was a hand, translucent and only vaguely human, hovering right above your own, but when you turned to look at it, it was gone. 

The near-death experience had been pretty traumatizing. You cursed yourself for following after that Gyro man in some attempt to get the edge on the competition; he might have been reckless and unconventional in how he had approached the race so far, but he had the skill to back it up. You weren't bad on a horse by any means, but the rough terrain and constant toughing it in the wilderness was way harder than you had ever imagined, and it was taking its toll on you. From here on out you would take the paths that the majority of the other racers were using and not get tempted by every promise of a shortcut from some eccentric rider playing loose and fast with life and death.

You apologized to your horse for scaring her again before crawling inside your bedroll and covering your head, shutting your eyes tight, willing yourself to sleep and leave these phantoms behind with the night. Come morning you’d be better.

And come morning, you were better.

For a while.

When you were riding with your horse alone in the wilderness, finally comfortable in the safety that the main course provided, you felt ecstatic. You loved horse riding of course, you wouldn’t be doing this otherwise, but something was different today. You and your horse were in perfect sync and you swore you felt as energetic and driven as if you were her yourself. If this was going to be the tone for the rest of the race then you’d have no problem leaving your waking desert nightmare long behind you.

When you saw the checkpoint in the distance you became even more excited, rushing ahead with all the energy your horse had been saving up for this point. You probably weren’t first but you were absolutely giddy at the thought of crossing another checkpoint. The closer you got, the more excited you were, until you realized something definitely felt off about everything.

Your excitement was starting to make you jittery. Frantic, even. The closer you got to the crowds of people cheering at the top of their lungs the shakier your breathing got. You didn’t have a problem with the crowds before the race, so why now?

Your horse of course picked up on your stress and you felt it magnified back towards you worse than before. You weren’t sure what was worse, the joyful excitement that threatened to drown you, or the anxiety feedback loop between you and your companion.

When you crossed the finish line you didn’t even listen for the announcer to try to figure out what place you were in. You dismounted your horse, tied her to a hitching post, and stumbled as best as you could towards the food and water table set up for competitors. All you needed was some cold water to ground you, that’s all. Maybe you were still shaken up from last night and it had just chosen a bad time to boil back up to the surface.

You practically fell over, stepping back suddenly, when another hand that wasn’t yours extended from your own to grab at a cup of water you were reaching for. It was the ghost hand from last night, only this time it didn’t disappear. To your horror it actually grew out of you until it was an entire creature, humanoid in shape but alien in appearance.

You looked around frantically at everyone in your vicinity, but all they did was raise their eyebrows at you in confusion, looking at you like you were out of your mind. Could no one else see it? You could only faint from the shock.

---

When you woke up you were in a medical tent, but you felt no relief when upon scanning the room for any staff members you once again met the gaze of the ghost that had put you here to begin with.

“What are you!? What do you want with me?” you demanded, only to receive no reply.

“So you do have one,” an intimidating voice called out behind you. Your head snapped back and you saw an androgynous stranger dressed in hot pink sitting in one of the chairs by the tent’s entrance, staring at you with an apathetic expression. The words seemed less directed at you and more just the stranger musing out loud.

Despite what must have been a conscious attempt from the stranger to disguise any secondary sex characterisitics, you knew right away she was a woman. You knew it before your eyes had even adjusted to get a good look at her. You suddenly knew a lot of things about her that you had idea how you knew. Her face was entirely unreadable and gave nothing away, but it didn’t need to.

This woman was a cosmos of warring emotions that threatened to rip her apart from the inside. How could she sit there and look so calm when she was currently drowning, burning, and crumbling before your very eyes? Shame, fear, despair, grief, an ocean during a storm.

You had many questions fighting in your mind for permission to be asked first. Who was she? Could she see the ghost? Did she know what it was? 

“Are you… are you okay?” you sputtered out instead. Her overwhelming aura had won out against all your curiosity.

She raised an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

You couldn’t articulate why you had asked her that unprompted, but there was no way you were just projecting emotions this time like you had with your horse. These were human emotions from a human woman that were attacking your human mind. You clutched your head and winced in pain.

“What’s happening to me?” you choked out, the beginning of sobs starting to form in your throat. “What are you doing to me?”

The ghost that had been watching you with curiosity this whole time floated up to you, placing its hand on your shoulder. Your instinct was to flinch, but now something else was overwhelming all your senses. You didn’t notice at first, but this ghost had a mirror where its face should be, and now that you were staring at it you could only see yourself. Then there was a gentle calm, a bright light snatching away your vision, and a sudden realization.

This thing was you.

Although you were spared the continued assault of the stranger’s emotions, your now exhausted body drifted off once again.

When you woke up again it seemed as if not too much time had passed, as the announcer’s voice could still be heard calling out race results in the distance and the lighting in the tent hadn’t changed much. You sat up again and glanced around. The ghost was gone, and so was the woman. It hadn’t been a dream, had it?

Well, if there were no nurses available to check up on you before heading out you supposed you’d make your leave. As you popped out of your own tent and glanced into the others you passed by you supposed you could understand. While you had fainted most of the other people needing medical attention had some pretty nasty injuries from the race. After finally leaving the medical tents behind you saw a familiar (and very much not a figment of your imagination) pink figure in the distance, preparing to mount her horse.

She wasn’t getting away that easily! You ran to intercept her, unsure of what to call to get her attention, settling on just, “Hey! You!”

She turned towards you as you approached, and without a change of expression she went back to readying her horse. “You’re awake,” she stated, matter of factly.

“You left before I could talk to you!” you wheezed out, catching your breath. “You didn’t explain anything!”

“I don’t have anything to explain,” she replied flatly, still not turning to look at you as she untied her horse from the hitching post. “But if you have something to ask I suggest you ask it now.”

“But you were waiting for me to wake up! And you know about the ghost that I saw, right? And… when I looked at you before everything got all… weird and dark…? But it’s not like that anymore! Did you fix me?”

“I saw you out in the desert,” she replied, ignoring your questions. “You found the same rock formations I did, didn’t you? No one else could see the thing you call a ‘ghost’ except for me. I thought you’d have answers, but you don’t know anything, so I saw no point to sticking around,” she explained before climbing up onto her horse.

“Wait, don’t go!” you called after her, but her horse was already trotting off. You looked around for the hitching post with your own horse and quickly got to work mounting her before trying to catch up with the mysterious woman. You pulled up beside her and gave her a big frown, but she didn’t even look over at you. “Please, I have no idea what’s happening!”

“I answered all your questions, didn’t I?” she asked, increasing her horse’s pace while you pulled ahead to match it. She didn’t, not even a little bit, but it seemed like she might be in the same boat as you. Didn’t she want to figure out what was going on? How could she be so disinterested?

“Are you being serious right now?”

“I’m always serious,” she said, finally sparing a scathing glance in your direction. Approaching the border of the town where streets finally made way to an open dirt path, her horse started up a reasonably well paced running speed, leaving you behind in a cloud of dust. She really wasted no time cooling down between stages before getting right back in there, did she?

Fine then, you’d keep pace. You’d follow her across this entire damn continent if you had to in order to get an explanation you were satisfied with.

At first you didn’t try to continue your conversation since most of your energy was placed on just trying to catch up and stay caught up. While the overwhelming anxiety you had felt in the presence of the crowded city streets had faded to background noise, distancing yourself even further was still a huge relief. Whatever your ‘ghost’ had done to you before you passed out the second time, it seemed to make the influx of emotions ebb to a steady trickle. You also felt like you had a bit more control of what you took in now, focusing your new ‘ability’ at your horse and shutting everything else out.

Whatever was going on with you at least it was making you a better competitor, more in tune with your horse than you ever had been. You were starting to realize you’d need any advantage you could get if this was only a starting pace for the woman. Once your horse got comfortable staying in line with her horse and you felt confident she wasn’t going to try to pull ahead again you called out to her.

“Who are you?” you asked. A reasonable question that could perhaps break the ice. When she didn’t answer you told her your name instead. Nothing. You glanced over and noticed the brand on her horse that read: “HP? Are those your initials?” Again, silence.

You had something you could use to get her attention, although you hadn’t wanted to start with it. Still, it was something about her that made you very curious. She was clearly trying to disguise the fact that she was a woman from other competitors, and while there were plenty of viable reasons a woman would want to do that, and she might not react well to being found out, you had to know if her reasons were similar to yours.

You wore clothing that disguised aspects of your figure and facial features, in addition to a wide brimmed hat, bulky scarf, and gloved hands. A lot of people assumed you were a man by default, but others sometimes projected different traits onto you. Truth is that you’d rather keep it a mystery, leave everyone guessing. You never felt like you fit into either the world of men or of women, but you had never met another person who felt the same way as you.

While you knew this stranger was definitely a woman, could the fact she disguised herself mean she understood too? Or was it for her safety?

“You’re a woman, right?” you asked, a bit awkwardly. You immediately regretted it when although it had the desired effect of getting her attention she now turned towards you with a glare.

“What makes you think that?” she asked, controlling her expression back to its neutral unreadable state, turning back to look ahead.

“The ghost told me so,” you said. “But you don’t want people to know.”

“It would be inconvenient, but I don’t really care what anyone thinks of me. I can’t be blackmailed,” she responded, a bit of gruff annoyance seeping into her voice. “What about you? Are you not also attempting to hide your identity with the way you’re dressed? I’ll warn you now, if you’re an outlaw I won’t hesitate to knock you off that horse and hang you.”

“Oh my God, what?” you yelled at her, taken aback. “No! I just… don’t want people looking at me, is all!”

“I’ve noticed,” she replied. “Which is why I wasn’t expecting you to follow after me.” Had she been keeping an eye on you? Noticing your withdrawn and secretive nature? You did rank decently in the first race, so it would make sense if she did some snooping on her competitors. “But here you are, after I’ve already told you I have nothing for you.”

“But... you have a ghost too, right?” you prompted. Even if she seemed to think comparing notes wasn’t worthwhile, you had to disagree. And now that you had her talking maybe you could get some answers.

“No,” she said. “But I have this.” She pulled out what looked like a… lighter, perhaps? The handle of a gun? She did take it from her holster. “It appeared after I encountered that place in the desert. It’s called Cream Starter.”

“What is it?”

“A weapon. It lets me melt flesh.”

That was a scary thought. You hadn’t done anything like that yet. “And it’s called Cream Starter? How do you know? Is that just what you named it?”

“No,” she responded, holstering it again. “I just know.”

Did your ghost have a name too? You thought about how you’d like to get another look at it since it had not reappeared yet, but simply thinking that made it materialize into existence next to you. You flinched a little, but this time you were able to keep your fear under control. You didn’t want to scare your horse again.

You gave it a quick glance, not wanting to distract yourself from the road ahead of you. It still had that same mirror face and you noticed what looked like a rotary phone embedded into its chest. Without understanding why you knew, you knew.

“Mine is called Kiss Me Through The Phone,” you said out loud, not necessarily at her. You weren’t expecting a reply to that. You sent the ghost away and spoke again to her. “I don’t exactly understand what it does, but it lets me… tell what people are like. Who they are and how they’re feeling.” You weren’t sure if she gave a grunt in reply or not, but she didn’t say anything else.

The both of you rode in silence for a while as she seemed to have no intention of trying to ditch you, but she didn’t seem happy about you following her either. You could always check to tell exactly how she felt about you riding with her, but you were afraid of feeling that same drowning sensation you felt before you were able to control what got in and what didn’t.

Before you knew it the sun was setting and you finally broke the hours of silence. “There’s an inn up ahead in a small town! Some of the competitors look like they’re stopping there for the night!” You pointed ahead even though she wasn’t looking at you and could probably already see the distant figures of three of the other top ranking competitors heading towards a town in the distance. You recognized them as Gyro, Johnny, and Diego. While Diego had been a favorite to win from the start, the other two were generating their own buzz after their performance.

But your companion did not change course to veer closer to the cliffs leading into town, but stayed on the lower path.

“Wait! The inn is at the top of this hill!” you called, as if it was possible for her to not already know that.

“Don’t let me stop you,” she called back at you, continuing ahead as your horse’s speed faltered a bit. You wanted to rest in a comfortable inn and you had already sworn to yourself that you wouldn’t follow any more shortcuts presented by other riders after what happened in the desert. But you didn’t die in the desert, did you? It was almost as if you were fated to end up there and receive this power. And now you had met someone else caught up in the same situation.

You already knew what type of person she was. She was cold, but not malicious. She was harboring a deep pain within her, something she was able to keep hidden from everyone else but not from you. She was lonely, and you were no stranger to loneliness yourself. You had kept your true self hidden from everyone since the race started, and for some time before it if you were being honest. You were drawn to her, despite the way that your stomach turned every time you imagined the terrible pain that peering into her soul had given you.

But she was the one who had to bear that pain the worst, always. She couldn’t shut it off like you could. If you couldn’t help her fight it, maybe you could at least help her carry it.

---

“Why couldn’t we just sleep at the inn and leave earlier than everyone else? Are we really saving that much time by camping a bit ahead of the others?” you whined. You had been complaining like this for a while as you helped Hot Pants set up camp.

You had finally learned her name was Hot Pants, but knowing HP was indeed an acronym had you playfully calling her that occasionally, her much to her indignation. You also saw her Cream Starter in action briefly as it managed to heal some scrapes on her horse’s legs as if they had never been there. The thick meaty substance was a little gross, but the fact that it had applications outside of use as a weapon made you a little less afraid of it.

“I’m not making you camp with me,” she said in her usual blunt tone. “You chose to follow me.” You knew she was right, but you still grumbled. It took some convincing for her to even let you camp in the same spot as her, but you had offered to share your resources and help her gather firewood.

“Sorry,” you sighed. “I’m just not used to roughing it.”

“I’m not here to take care of you,” Hot Pants said, looking at you firmly. “I won’t wait up for you in the morning, either.”

“Hear you loud and clear HP,” you said, giving her a smile. Despite the outward apathy in her expressions and words, you could be sure her hostility was mostly empty. You did try probing her with your ability just a bit more, focusing on the outer layers of her psyche without diving any deeper than you needed to. At the forefront of her mind, beyond the despair she held deep within, was a fierce determination and a sense of hope that had been overshadowed last time you looked at her soul. Knowing that she had found some distant light to strive for had you a bit relieved for her sake.

Still, as surface level as you tried to keep your readings now, you still felt a bit guilty about seeing her as you had before. It didn’t sit right with you to keep silent about it, and you felt like in the spirit of trying to gain her trust you should be open about it. After the fire was built up to a level where it didn’t need your constant attention you leaned back and decided to bite the bullet.

“HP… about when I first saw you,” you began. You were expecting her to ignore you until you got to your main point since she wasn’t very tolerant of any preamble in your conversations, but this time she did look at you with a raised eyebrow. “With my ability… I saw something really scary inside you, really painful to experience. I don’t know what it means, but I just thought you should know.”

“My soul has strayed too far from God’s light, then?” she said as a question, although with her flat delivery it sounded more like a statement. You were expecting denial of what you saw, or annoyance that you saw it, but you weren’t expecting her to say something like that.

“What? No? It wasn’t like… evil or anything. Just… sad,” you said. You hadn’t wanted to use the word ‘sad’ because it stood in such stark opposition to the unaffected aura she was trying to project, and you didn’t want her to feel insulted.

But she gave a small chuckle, quiet enough to where you almost didn’t hear it. “Just sad,” she repeated, to herself. She looked towards you with a weird kind of curious smile. “Earlier you had also said that my soul is that of a woman, correct?”

“Y-yeah… that’s how I could tell. And, I mean… if you already know it then some of your prettier features start to stick out, more,” you began, your cheeks quickly flushing a bit in embarrassment for admitting you found her attractive. You tried to backpedal. “But if you’re worried about other people finding out-!”

“No,” she said, interrupting you. “I told you already, I don’t care about that. I’m just surprised is all.”

“Surprised?” you asked in a tone of confusion.

She looked at you as if it was the first time she was really taking you in as another person, not just a competitor or obstacle she was sizing up. But before too much vulnerability could show through, she was closed off again. It was silent for a long while and it was clear the conversation was over for her, but you didn’t want to relinquish any of the progress you had made so far so you awkwardly tried to start up the conversation again.

“I’ve just never met someone else who’s tried hiding their gender is all,” you blurted out. You had thought that maybe being vulnerable about your own secret would show her you were trustworthy, but you regretted it soon after you said it. “I mean, whatever you’re doing it for is probably different, but! I was just… I don’t know… curious!”

“Your disguise is for hiding your gender?” she asked, seemingly interested in the conversation again. “It’s effective. I really can’t tell one way or the other.”

You gave an involuntary smile at that. “Th-thanks! Truth is… I don’t really like being seen as anything in particular… ever since I was a kid it always felt weird. I know that probably doesn’t make much sense to you… you probably want to know what I actually am...”

Once again, she was looking at you very closely, her face its usual neutral but far more relaxed and visibly contemplative. “No,” she said again. “It doesn’t concern me.”

While she had tried to say it the same apathetic way she had said it before, as if she really didn’t care to hear any more about your life story, once again reading her revealed a softness to her intentions. It was meant as an affirmation. You gave her a big sheepish grin in response to that, and she let out an annoyed huff before standing up and heading to her bed roll.

She said she wouldn’t wait up for you in the morning, but the next day you could tell that the noisy way she packed up her supplies was intentional.

---

“Those two took my cattle,” Hot Pants said with some uncharacteristic frustration, reaching over to one of the bags on the side of her horse to dig around for something. She pulled out two ropes and began tying them into what you slowly realized was two nooses. “They’ll hang for that.”

“Huh!? Really? I can understand being upset but don’t you think that’s kind of harsh?”

She looked towards you as if she could not possibly understand what your reasoning was. “They’ve broken one of the laws of this land, correct? Is the punishment outlined by your laws not hanging?”

You weren’t familiar with the exact word of the law, but something like that was probably true. Still, the idea that she could be so casual about hanging two men who you hadn’t even investigated yet had you pouting.

It was also interesting to note the way she said “your laws” and the laws of “this land.” She had registered in this race as an American, right? Did her origins have to do with her disguise? Or was she just from the other side of the continent? Maybe you’d ask her about it later. She had been a tad more open with you lately, although she had yet to tell you her “true objective,” which you slowly began to realize through small clues here and there that it was not winning the Steel Ball Run.

As you got closer you saw it was Gyro Zeppeli and Johnny Joestar. “Nice weather for racing, isn’t it?” Hot Pants asked casually as she threw both nooses over a tree branch. “But I’m not here to talk. Can I ask the two of you to dismount so I can hang you properly?”

Gyro furrowed his eyebrows and looked between Hot Pants and you. You just looked at him a bit wide-eyed and awkwardly shrugged your shoulders. You didn’t like the idea any more than he did. Hopefully the three of them could talk things out.

“You’re that Hot Pants guy, aren’t you?” Gyro asked before looking at you and saying the false name you had entered the race under as well.

“The two of you finished an hour before anyone else, what need do you have to kill off the competition like this?” Johnny asked, frustration as well as curiosity laced into his voice. You directed your ghost’s power towards the two men and found no hostile intentions between either of them on a surface level.

“You misunderstand my intentions,” Hot Pants said. “That cattle you slaughtered for its meat was mine. For theft of cattle the punishment is hanging.”

“Hey, HP? I think that we should hear them out…” you said, but it came out a bit more quietly than you were hoping before Gyro was speaking over you.

“Hey, hey, hey, let’s not be hasty. We only took a little bit, but only because the cow was already dead and picked apart by scavengers by the time-” he started, but he was interrupted by Hot Pants jumping off her horse with her spray bottle at the ready. You really wished Hot Pants wasn’t the kind of person to act before talking. She had already started spraying them with her Cream Starter, and while Gyro had reached for what appeared to be a weapon of sorts he was immediately overtaken by the fleshy substance.

“Ah! HP!” you yelled to try to get her attention, but she was paying you no mind, tackling Gyro off his horse and to the ground. Johnny Joestar held his finger out towards her in a gesture reminiscent of aiming a gun, although unlike Gyro he didn’t have a weapon on him, but HP was quickly spraying him as well. Soon the faces of the two men were covered with a thin layer of flesh that blocked all their orifices, causing them to thrash around sightless and unable to breathe.

You probed them a bit deeper to ascertain their guilt, since Hot Pants wasn’t going to listen to reason. As far as you could tell Gyro had been truthful in saying that they had come across the cow already dead, and deeper than that he didn’t seem like a bad person by any means. Certainly not the type of guy who deserved to be hung. Johnny Joestar was a little trickier to get a read on, and while you could tell he too was not necessarily a bad person he did harbor a deep anger and an almost dark level of determination that kind of frightened you a bit. If you could stay off his bad side, you definitely would. Hot Pants wouldn’t listen to them, but you hoped she’d listen to you.

“HP, please! They didn’t kill the cow! Gyro is telling the truth, they really did just find it like that!” you called out to her. She hesitated for a second before crawling off Gyro and calling off her Cream Starter’s attack. Just in time too, it looked like Gyro was about to hit her with that iron ball of his.

“If you say it’s true, then it is,” she said, casting a glance in your direction. “But I won’t apologize to someone who ate meat that legally belonged to me, regardless of how much they took.” She walked casually back over to her horse and remounted it.

“Bastard,” Gyro grumbled under his breath. “Good riddance.”

“Wait!” Johnny said before Hot Pants could move her horse. “Did you get your stand from the Devil’s Palm too?”

“Stand?” you asked.

“Yeah, that’s what they’re called. I got one during the Arizona leg of the race too, out in the desert,” he further explained.

Hot Pants looked thoughtful for a moment, although she remained quiet. You weren’t about to let the opportunity go to waste though, and you pulled out your Through The Phone.

“Is this ghost a stand too?” you asked.

The two men looked a little shocked at first before relaxing. “Probably,” Johnny said. “Looks like mine and some others I’ve seen.”

“There’s others? How many!?”

“I dunno… we’re bound to see more by the time this race is finished, though.”

Hot Pants was looking over her shoulder at you, clearly already content with the amount of information she had received and ready to get going. You were a bit surprised that she was actually waiting for you before going on ahead, but the thought made you happy.

“Well, maybe we’ll run into each other again!” you offered with a friendly wave good-bye. The two men looked at each other with raised eyebrows, confused with your demeanor considering your riding companion had just tried to kill them, but they offered a reluctant farewell as your horse trotted off after her.

After you had put some distance between yourselves and them she muttered out, “We still need to hang the one responsible.”

“I’ll give you some of my food tonight if it would make you feel better,” you offered to placate her.

“It’s not about the food. It’s against the law. If justice doesn’t exist out here, I’ll bring it myself,” she stated. While her convictions seemed almost a little ridiculous to you, you could tell from her aura that she did in fact abide by this black and white sense of righteousness. You hoped for the thief's sake that you two didn’t stumble upon them.

After a while of trotting along on your horses you started to feel like all the trees looked the same. It felt like you were making no progress at all, no matter how long you walked for. Eventually Hot Pants took out her compass and gave a confused huff at whatever she saw on its display. The two of you noticed some familiar figures that you thought you had just left behind drawing closer, and a small log house some ways behind them.

“Well, at least we can trust those two to help us out,” Hot Pants said plainly, pulling up ahead of you. Despite your fear from the current predicament you were in, you couldn’t help but smile a bit. Her choosing to trust those two was an extension of her choosing to trust you. That thought also made you happy.

---

You hadn’t been ready for a gunfight, let alone a stand fight. That man, Ringo Roadagain, didn’t even bother looking at you. You weren’t worth his time, and you could have honestly gotten out unscathed if you had stayed back like Hot Pants told you to. But when he aimed to shoot her you ran to push her out of the way, acting on pure instinct, and you were shot pretty badly in the process. You were out cold after that and by the time you finally came to your senses it was night time.

You sat up quickly, frantically feeling at your shoulder to assess the status of your wound, but you quickly realized that there was nothing there except a faint dull pain. You were on top of your bedroll in front of a campfire, your horse next to Hot Pants’s horse.

“You’re awake,” came a familiar voice, and you turned to see her sitting on a log, watching you, her head leaned on her steepled fingers.

“Did we… get out of there?” you asked, a bit groggy.

“Yes. I healed your wound.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, laying back down on your bed roll.

“You would risk your life to save that of a stranger?” she asked, straight to the point. No ‘you’re welcome’ or ‘how are you feeling’ or even ‘that was a close one’, as her eyes continued to bore into you. “You have no reason to believe I’d do the same for you.”

You gave her a tired smile and chuckled, which only made her eyebrows furrow in annoyance. “You could have left me back there. Even if you just wanted to heal my wounds to be polite… you could have left me behind.”

“You’re clearly trustworthy,” she said, a little too quick, as if to dismiss the idea that it was purely out of the goodness of her heart. “I need allies I can depend on, and your stand will be useful in discerning who stands in the way of my objectives.”

“Hmm… so it’s just because I’m useful? How utilitarian of you,” you said, your smile turning into a smirk. But still, did that mean she was officially inviting you along? Was she no longer going to pretend that you just happened to be in the same places she was in and that you were of ‘no concern’ to her? The mention of her ‘objectives’ also made you think she might let you in on whatever she was really in this race to do.

Hot Pants finally broke eye contact with you. “You’re a good person. And you can keep pace with me.” There she went again, dampening a compliment by following it with another less sentimental, more practical one. She stood up and made sure the now dwindling fire was fully out before she went to her own bedroll, slipping inside it and turning her body so it faced away from you. “Next time do not sacrifice yourself for my sake.”

You just smiled to yourself, getting settled in your own bedroll, which you realized that she must have spread out for you. Your heart fluttered a bit at the deep appreciation and respect noticeably radiating off her.

---

“They got ahold of another corpse part,” Hot Pants said, putting her binoculars down. “Good.” Gyro and Johnny were off far in the distance with a girl who Hot Pants had recognized as Lucy Steel. It seems as if you caught them in the aftermath of some battle, as they were looking pretty beat up, but they had managed to secure the spine. There had been some heavy rainfall earlier, but the sky was finally starting to clear up, which you were glad for.

“Why can’t we just work with them, instead of waiting to steal the parts later?” You already knew why, of course. You’d seen Johnny’s overwhelming desire to obtain the corpse, and you knew he wouldn’t give it up easily, especially not if Hot Pants was unwilling to reveal her true intentions to him. You’d told her as much before, so she didn’t bother answering your question. While you didn’t want to hurt Johnny even you had to admit something like the holiest corpse on the face of the Earth was too precious a thing to belong to any one man. The Vatican collecting it seemed the most reasonable option to you.

“Well… let’s keep moving then,” you said after the figures in the distance were out of sight even with Hot Pants’s binoculars. The two of you continued along, and as usual you were the one trying to lead a conversation. “So, you’re like a high ranking agent of the Vatican, right? Do you go on other missions as big as this one too?”

“The Vatican deploys me as they see fit,” she said, devoid of any of the juicier details you were hoping for. “Before this I performed the duties of a sister in my covenant.”

“You’re a nun?”

“No. The Church felt my skill set made me better suited for an uncloistered life. I did spend years training to become a proper sister with the idea I may one day become a nun, but once the period of my temporary vows elapsed I underwent a different type of training.”

“Secret battle nun training?” you asked with a playful smile. She just stared at you blankly.

“It’s probably for the best, in the end. I don’t think it was God’s will that I continue on as a sister,” she said, her voice lacking its usual conviction. “Although…”

“Hm?”

“It seems it is still God’s will I live my life as a woman,” she said, almost too quiet for you to hear. “As I believe it is also He who brought us together.”

You bit your lip to stifle a giant grin that was appearing on your face, although Hot Pants was not looking in your direction anyway, now lost in her own thoughts. What types of vows did a covert agent of the Vatican have to abide by? Was it wrong that you felt yourself falling for her, little by little? Could she even be with someone like you, someone who lived as neither a man nor a woman?

The more you learned about Hot Pants, though, the more you began to suspect she and you were more alike than you originally had thought, as clearly her relationship to her gender was more complicated than it appeared on the surface. You never asked outright about it; if she wanted you to know she would tell you herself.

There had been a night when in the middle of a round of questioning from you on various aspects of Catholicism the topic of Joan of Arc had come up. Apparently there were ongoing efforts to canonize her as a saint. Joan of Arc was acting under the directions of God when she wore men’s clothes, right? It wasn’t the same at all, but… was it too hard to believe that God’s plan had accounted for your circumstances?

“Well, if that’s true, this God fellow is alright in my book,” you said with a chuckle. She turned back to give you a glare as she usually did whenever you didn’t show God what she felt was the proper amount of reverence, but it was hard taking her seriously when you could read her actual feelings at any given moment.

And for the first time since you met her she seemed content.

---

“HP!” you called out, shaking her awake with one hand, holding a lantern you had quickly lit up with the other. “HP, there’s something in the woods! Our horses ran off!”

She blinked a few times to clear the sleep from her eyes before she heard the same snapping of branches that woke you up. She shot up onto her legs and grabbed Cream Starter from her side, turning towards the noise.

“Enemies?” she muttered.

“Whoever it is, they’re angry, and… hungry? Really simple thoughts. I think it’s an animal,” you murmured, positioning yourself behind her.

Your suspicions were confirmed when a bear lumbered into your lantern’s light, its eyes a bright yellow green as they reflected back eerily at you two in the dark. It stood still for a while, sizing you two up, and you noticed that Hot Pants had noticeably tensed, her hand with her weapon still held uselessly at her side.

Just like that you were transported back to that moment you first met her, before you understood your stand’s power, when you felt the weight of the entire world crushing you from all sides as you sank lower and lower into despair. All the layers between the image Hot Pants projected outwards onto the world and the deep sadness she felt at her core were gone, and you were hit with it all at once before you could guard yourself against it. 

“HP!” you yelled, clutching at your head. “HP, please!”

She was breathing heavily as she slowly turned to look at you, her eyes wide and horrified in a way that looked so wrong on her usually calm and collected face. She looked past you at something else, someone else, far away from here. Her mouth hung open with the promise of a silent shout, but the only sound she made was her panting.

“Look out!” you yelled, pushing her out of the way as the bear behind her swung its claw. She fell to the ground with you following after her, your bulky clothes ripped to shreds at your side where blood seeped out from a few of the deeper cuts. Despite the pain your adrenaline allowed you to shoot back up and drag Hot Pants away from the bear as it turned around to follow you with its gaze.

“Hot Pants, please,” you begged, your breathing just as ragged as hers. “My stand isn’t strong enough to hurt it.”

“I’m sorry,” she cried out, tears spilling from her eyes. She wasn’t talking to you, still looking past you. “Lord, I’m sorry… I’m sorry.” She repeated it over and over and when shaking her by the shoulders didn’t snap her out of it you turned around to face the bear again.

You summoned your stand and tried to think of what you knew of bear safety. Were you supposed to play dead? Was it too late if it was already attacking? Did you aim for the nose or did you try to run and not engage? Your stand was only about as strong as an average person’s strength, but you used its arms to hit the bear hard on the nose. That seemed to stun it momentarily, which gave you the opportunity to pick up Hot Pants and drape her over your shoulder as you started running away, the feelings of anger only intensifying behind you.

While Hot Pants dragged her feet initially, eventually she was able to take steps in time with your own, although she still needed your support. “I’m sorry,” she said again, although it sounded a little more grounded this time. “You’re injured.” She sobbed loudly upon finally comprehending the situation at hand. “I told you not to sacrifice yourself for me, I told you to never sacrifice yourself for me...”

“HP, it’s still after us,” you said firmly now that you had her attention. She stopped walking and removed herself from your grip.

“Keep going. I can handle it now,” she said, her voice a shaky imitation of her usual confidence.

“I’m not leaving you!” You knew she was hardly in a state to handle a bear all on her own, and you could still feel all the negativity she exuded like thick gooey tar. You didn’t want to leave her to any self-destructive impulses she may have.

“You have to live,” she said, turning back to you with a weak smile. “That bear is just here for me.”

“It’s a bear!” you shouted indignantly. “It came here for food! It doesn’t know who you are, Hot Pants! If it was a holy messenger of divine wrath I think I’d know!”

“But-” she stuttered. “My sins- I can’t-”

“I told you before,” you said, loud and firm but more gentle than your previous yelling. “Your soul doesn’t have a shred of evil in it.”

She paused for a second before turning back to face the oncoming bear, her Cream Starter raised and poised to attack. “No… not evil,” she quoted with a wavering laugh, “just sad.”

With that she was leaping forward, spraying the bear’s face with a thick layer of her meat spray and taking away any of the senses it had to track either of you. Unable to breathe or see or smell its surroundings, it thrashed wildly in all directions as she continued to spray without end, borrowing flesh from its legs which now wobbled weakly under its weight.

Eventually it collapsed and the heaving of its body as it struggled to find any air finally ceased.

Hot Pants was shaking again as she fell to her knees in front of its corpse, her Cream Starter falling out of her hand. As you tried to calm your own heart still pounding in your chest, you approached her and plopped down next to her on the dirt. She cried for a while, silent this time, as the two of you just looked at it.

“Well, at least this takes care of our food situation for a good few days,” you said at last to break the tension. When you heard her give a small laugh you were glad that you didn’t come across as insensitive. “Although I hear bear meat is pretty gamey.”

Instead of responding she abruptly wrapped her arms around you and squeezed you tight. “You saved me,” she whispered.

You were taken aback, but you slowly brought your arms to wrap around her as well. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one who took it down.”

But the true meaning of her words was not lost on you. Once again your heart was overflowing with the ambience of her inner self, and while she still held an ocean within her it felt as if the storm clouds had finally parted and the waters were steady.

You two finally disentangled and stared at each other in a contemplative and comfortable silence for a long time. She had a sweet smile on her face, and you didn’t need to use your stand to see the way her eyes were sparkling with adoration.

“I won’t leave your side, Hot Pants. I’ll stay with you until this whole thing is over,” you promised, holding up your hand to cup her face. “And I’ll follow you after too, if you’d let me.”

You leaned in slowly, giving her ample space and time to move away, but she only fluttered her eyes shut and leaned in as well. Eventually the two of your lips met in a soft kiss, almost chaste but definitely warm and just a touch desperate. Slowly the two of you backed up again, searching each other’s eyes for some help in deciphering the intimate moment, but it was clear neither of you had regretted it.

She gave you a smirk, a playful twinkle in her eyes. “Whatever you do,” she began, grabbing at the hand on her face to intertwine her fingers with it. “It doesn’t concern me.”

[saladejin]

Les Amoureux | Jungkook

Jungkook x Reader | theatre!au, musicals & singing | Fluff and crack, heavy use of musical theatre references 

Summary:  Your favourite backstage buddy tries his best to crack down on why you’re so attracted to stage actors, but he knows you’ve only got eyes for him in the end.

Warnings: None, having knowledge of some well-known musicals will make this more enjoyable though

Word Count: 2.3k (basically a drabble)

! ! ! READ BEFORE CONTINUING ! ! !   This one-shot has some references to a couple of musicals, and if you're not familiar with these then I'm afraid it might go over your head in some parts. The references are from the shows 'Phantom of the Opera' and 'Les Misérables', and I will leave a note at the end of which songs are included if you wish to listen for yourself. Otherwise, it probably won't make sense and won't be as enjoyable :/        I strongly urge you to listen to this song during the last part of the one-shot, or at least listen beforehand to grasp the dynamics and line exchanges: A Heart Full of Love (I fast-forwarded for you)          *Request from my Ao3 series ‘Movie Night’.

~ 

“What is it about stage actors that you find so attractive?”

You lifted your head from where you were sewing up a hole in a costume, the frilly pink material bunching up around your hands until you could barely see where the needle was going. Your fellow crew member, Jeon Jungkook, had heaved himself up to sit on one of the nearby desks. Clearly, the poor boy was bored out of his mind.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You smirked, eyeing him in a teasing manner while finishing off the costume repair swiftly.  

The late-night musical you guys were helping backstage for had already begun twenty minutes prior, and after having nothing to do for another three songs, you had both ventured down towards the change rooms to get some work done in the meantime. Well, to be fair it was more like you had sought out the jobs while Jungkook just wanted to pass time in the company of his closest theatre friend.

“Surely you’re not blinded by those flashy costumes,” The dark-haired man scrunched his nose up in a playful cringe.

“Think harder, Jeon,” You chuckled at his antics, noticing the way he bounced his leg up and down while he thought. The energetic boy was dressed in all black just as you were, since it was a requirement of all crew members in order to remain unseen by the audience if they needed to be on stage at any point.

You couldn’t help your eyes from wandering along his impressive physique, all pressed up in a black high-necked skivvy and tight black jeans.

“Us crew guys work out just as much as those pretty boys do, probably even more. Plus, I hear the stylists complaining about the hair they have to deal with every night,” Jungkook continued to try and sway your mind, obviously getting a kick out of picking your brain and earning your mild reactions of laughter and amusement in return.

“You think your hair is much better?” You let out a single breath of bewilderment and tried to keep your widening smile at bay. He was too cute in the way his eyes widened and brows furrowed with mock offense, the man reaching a hand up to ruffle his soft looking brown tresses.

“What’s wrong with – hey I’m not done!”

You bit your lip to hold back an amused grin, proceeding to leave the room and make your way down the stairs to return the pink dress to the costume area. The sound of Jungkook’s clunky footsteps let you know he was following closely behind to continue his investigation.

“Oh, I get it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah, it’s the popularity. Being out in the spotlight. The fame and attention that comes with it,” He said in a matter-of-factly tone, and you could hear the playful bunny smile interwoven through his voice as he spoke.

“Is it? And how shallow do you think I am, Jeon?” You quipped, trying to ignore his warm breath brushing the back of your neck once you stopped to pull open the door. The light-hearted and joking attitude he adopted was so radiant, and you swore you would never get enough of his overwhelming charm and charisma.

You turned around after putting the dress down, lifting one finger to point and rest against the skin of your throat so he would catch the hint. Almost instantly, his head was thrown back as the epiphany struck, and a loud ‘ah!’ tumbled from his lips.

“Of course it’s the voice. God, I should’ve seen that from a mile away!” He groaned and met your eyes with his own sparkling coffee-brown ones. You could bet your last dollar that the cheeky guy already knew you had a thing for the stage actors with their beautiful voices and their strong dramatic acting, but he really did love to string you along and push all of your buttons.

“Get me a man who can sing his way to my heart,” You teased once more, knowing that he would instantly be thinking of what to do with this new information. You left him standing in the smaller costume room in his weird daze, wondering what else you could fix up before returning side stage to assist with the ongoing show.

A loud clutter sounded from the room you just left, and you felt a small stab of anxiety that someone would come down here and catch the two of you messing around (even though you were doing your best to be helpful at least), but you only exhaled in relief as Jungkook swept out of the small doorway with a flamboyance even your precious stage actors couldn’t rival.

You rolled your eyes at the goofball of a man in front of you.

“Not doing anything for you?” Jungkook hummed curiously, even though he knew exactly how little his little skit was ‘doing’ for you. Slowly, he peeled the extravagant Indian styled headdress from his dusty brown locks and eyed you with a newfound glint of amusement in his brightening doe eyes.

“Or….” He hummed lowly, eyeing you with a pointed gaze and a cheery lilt to his tone. “It’s not the voice, but rather the song.”

“What?” You felt your brows knit together in confusion.

“Show tunes, there’s not a woman in this world that could resist ‘em,” he continued, not phased in the slightest. You couldn’t help but let a warm feeling of fondness wash over you as he began singing softly. Though you appreciated any decent male vocalist, his voice in particular was your ultimate weakness in the end.

“Night time sharpens; heightens each sensation.”

“Jeon don’t you dare,” You grunted, knowing exactly where this was going. In the midst of the ongoing show upon the stage upstairs, the two of you were quite alone down in the change room area. While the sounds of thumping feet and cascading music echoed from above, you both only fixed your attention on one another.

Jungkook’s eyes gleamed as he left the first line of ‘Music of the Night’ hang in the air precariously, only moving to hide himself behind a rack of costumes a second later. From your seat on one of the makeup artist’s benchtop, you could just catch a tiny glimpse of a shaggy tuft of hair sticking up from behind the line of cloaks.

“You’re so lucky nobody’s-”

You cut yourself off as he rounded the edge of the rack from the other side, now wrapped in a dark midnight black cloak and lifting it to hide half his face. Just like the Phantom of the Opera himself.

“Silently the senses, abandon their defences!”

“Pfft… you’re such a dork,” You cackled and almost went toppling off the benchtop. He lifted one corner of his lips into a smirk and you felt your heart constrict at the sight. He was so charming, yet so silly. You didn’t know whether you wanted to smack him or kiss him right there in the room shrouded in shadow.

Wanting to humour him and his playful antics, you launched yourself off the bench and snatched a curly black wig from a nearby polystyrene head. You didn’t have a white dress, but you were sure he’d catch on.

“Angel of Music…Guide and guardian,” You sang through the various giggles falling from your lips. Your voice, though not terrible, could never match his stunning rendition of the two songs.

“Grant to me your glory~”

His eyes lit up at your eagerness, and he only got into character further by sidling up to you and stroking a delicate hand down the side of your face. The very picture of Christine and the Phantom themselves, you might say. With a dark glint in his eye, Jungkook looked like he was ready to sweep you off your feet, but the next sentence that graced your ears wasn’t what you were expecting to hear.

“Hmm, I don’t know… the words~”

With that you broke your façade and fell into his side, unable to hold back the laugh bubbling in your chest. “Here you are trying to woo me with show tunes, but you don’t know any!”

“Hey!” He gasped and retorted in protest, “I know plenty, thank you very much.”

“Where are they then?” You placed your hands on your hips with one eyebrow raised, knowing just how stupid you looked with the curly wig perched on your head, judging by the way the man in front of you was trying to stifle his shit-eating grin. He was looking rather funny himself with that massive black cloak hiding his entire body, enough so that only his head was poking out the top cutely.

“Um, hold on…”

You pursed your lips in amusement as he rushed away towards another costume rack. Not even wanting to know what he was doing, you stepped away and placed the scratchy wig back in its place.

“Master of the house, doling out the charm; ready with a handshake and an open palm!”

You whirled around to catch your hopeless counterpart as he threw a stained rag over one shoulder and started stumbling around as if in a drunken stupor. You couldn’t contain your peals of laughter at this point, it was all so hilarious and dumb that the show upstairs was all but forgotten. Jungkook found your amusement contagious and broke character almost immediately, watching you affectionately as he leaned against the wall for support.

“You know,” You sighed after coming down from your high, “Pretty much every song in that musical is depressing as fuck.”

The man smirked and made sure to leave the rag folded nicely on the nearest makeup bench, shaking his head roughly to try and get rid of any excess dust from the headdress he wore in the very beginning.

“Yeah, well ‘Les Misérables’ literally translates to ‘the miserable ones’. What can you expect? Help me out here,” He whined, faking an adorable pout while you once again suppressed your foolish smiling.

“I said pretty much every song, not all of them,” You cleared your throat. “You forget how many themes of love and romance are in there, Kookie.”

His eyes brightened at the sound of the nickname. It was rare for you to slip like this, as calling him by his last name or just ‘Jungkook’ was what stuck when you guys were hard at work at the theatre. Outside of that world, your walls would come down slightly and you’d grant him many nicknames and cute terms of friendly endearment. This time, however, your heart had somewhat betrayed you.

“Right,” He smiled softly, tearing his eyes away from you to sweep his hair off his forehead in a rush to clean up his messy act. To you, the movement was unfairly attractive, as it granted a great view of his arms and biceps through the long black sleeves of his shirt. All of a sudden, sweet dulcet melodies in the form of his voice graced your ears.

“A heart full of love…. A heart full of song.”

You almost melted on the spot at the way he sang the beautiful lines, wondering for a split second if they held any deeper meaning from the way his eyes had locked onto you so intensely. He was always like this, gaining such a gentle maturity when you least expected it. You eagerly returned his offer to duet, pushing yourself off the wall to meet him in the centre of the room.

“A heart full of love,” You laughed airily through the line. “No fear. No regret…”

“My name is Je-on Jungkookie,” He sang in a terrible French accent, almost breaking it with a chuckle when you laughed at his sneaky lyric change. It should’ve been ‘Marius Pontmercy’, a principal character from the show, but you let it slide and played along by switching your own line.

“And mine’s (Y/n).”

“(Y/n), I don’t know what to say,” Jungkook continued without fault, taking up your hands in his and giving you a slow spin around the empty space. You wanted to lose yourself in the feeling of his warm embrace and dainty fingers threading through your own.

“Then make no sound,” You almost whispered.

“I am lost,” He sang quietly, pulling you in close.

“I am found,” You leaned forward, feeling his warm breath brush your parted lips ever so slightly. If you both only had the soothing orchestra surrounding you as the scene played out, it would have been undeniably perfect; a tender moment caught in time.

“Do I dream?” He breathed after a few seconds had gone by, almost as if forgetting himself within the song. Your faces were inches apart, and you would’ve forgiven him for skipping an entire verse if he would only close the space between you, a gap you so often wanted gone the more time you spent together like this.  

His gentle hands swept your loose strands of hair behind your ear as his doe eyes fluttered shut, leaning closer and closer.

You were ready to finally let him have his way with you, the taste of those pretty lips which were so often stretched into a smile around his adorable bunny-like teeth were right there, but the sound of loud trumpets and thundering footsteps echoing from above pulled you away from his minty scent.

That sounds like…

“Shit, we missed our cue!”

His eyes blew wide and your breath hitched in panic.

Then you were flying up the stairs like there was no tomorrow. Your breathless stream of apologies to the poor people that had to fill in for you seemed to never end, and you felt the guilt eating you up from the inside as you and your pesky crewmate stood rigidly side by side next to the stage manager’s desk.

“Am I irresistible yet?” Jungkook murmured while letting his elbow nudge your arm. It was hard to see due to dark lighting, but you could easily make out the man’s knowing smirk and the gleam in his impish gaze.

“Take my cleaning duty for the week, Jeon, and I’ll think about it.”

               Songs included (I fast-forwarded to the timestamps for you guys): 

      Phantom of the Opera:      'Music of the Night' - Jungkook sings the first line/s      'The Mirror (Angel of Music)' - You sing this      Les Misérables:      'Master of the House' - Jungkook sings this line      'A Heart Full of Love' - linked in the beginning notes      --------------------------------------------------------------------   A/N- Hope this was somewhat okay. I love musicals so it kind of ran away from me, and I know that not many people probably share this love or knowledge of them. I'm so sorry T-T                Copyright © 2020 by salade. All rights reserved

[juleswolverton-hyde]

A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning | 02

Genre: Smut, Romance, Angst, Stepbrother AU

Pairing: Stepbrother!Namjoon x English student!Reader

Warning: A jealous Namjoon, possessive behaviour, mild swearing

Summary: Love comes in many shapes, but does not always have a prosperous fate. However, whereas parents might have found it, all the children can do is live in kalopsia.

Forbidden yet denying the mourning of the path chosen for them by Fate.

Previous part / Masterlist / Next part

Emotions have an unconscious way of influencing the environment, making a person emit an aura that makes others aware of their presence. Even when not really consciously aware, it happens and sometimes it is comforting - like friends joining you in the morning for the lecture and complaining about the early hour despite it already being almost noon - yet at other times it is all but that.

And in this case, the latter certainly applies as the suppressed rage hardly goes unnoticed and makes every breath the lungs held in anticipation of perhaps escaping the wolf be pushed out in an instant of awed fear. A type of horror which is nullified by the charm which earlier enchanted the mind during the reading of the messages containing a hidden meaning of silent possession, making the heart skip a beat with neither distress nor love. Although, perchance, it is filled with affection because it is secretly relieved and grown perverse by the adoration shaped by daydreams that have grown corrupt since another particular sensual incident. Namely, the first time seeing Namjoon shirtless and not too quietly busying hands with lust-filled phantom play through the crack in the door after coming home earlier than expected since, apparently, there was no need for extra hands on the work floor.

A specification of the change lies perhaps in the detail which was not as heart-wrenching and cruelly teaching as it should have been. It added idiotic rosy fuel to the despicable fires the fool within keeps igniting regardless of Sense trying to bind them down and take the blindfold of Chance off so that the damage which has been done and is about to be expanded could be seen.

A name.

Tethering with the giant on the edge and the culprit of the fall.

Mine.

Breath ceased entirely at that moment, the spine quickly pressed against the wall of the corridor so as to evade any accidental eye contact that would ruin everything with the betrayal of presence. Nevertheless, the speed of the swift retreat was not high enough and gazes did lock, but one turned away in horror and fled up the rickety cedar stairs.

Ran away from the half-dazed wolf who likely would have wanted to explain himself had the silly girl not known without needing evidence it was a mere slip of the tongue, devoid of meaning.

Only caused by the accidental notice of something private.

Nothing.

I still mean nothing.

The power of the amount of helplessness felt by both parties during that calamity mixed with the potion of guilt and self-loathing for still entertaining the thoughts thereafter of being taken against that same futilely protecting wall by him, comes close yet not entirely to the menace as Joon approaches and forcefully grabs the wrist hanging unresisting by the side. The attached body is pulled flush against the dark trench coat like a ragdoll, beckoned back to the realm of secure sharp cologne, while espresso eyes stare Changkyun down, likely calculating how to end the lad.

Withal, that shall not happen before anything is said about this new addition to the rapidly growing list of strange behaviours as Wit awakens and kills the lucid imaginations. This is seriously wrong and needs to be solved, so Judgement cannot be made blind by Fancy. ‘Joon, what the hell are you doing?’

‘I told you we’d be going out for lunch.’ As to emphasize who is meant by the plural personal pronoun, the hand that had folded perfectly over the wrist now does the same at the hip in a closer hold. Briefly, an odd spark within remarks upon the snug fit, the harmony of complementary shapes, edging Sense in the sinful direction once more for a mere split second before it turns around again. ‘I’m here to pick you up.’

None of the surrounding speechless amiable lifelines dares to speak up, all of them engrossed in the wordless war currently being waged by a poet gone haywire and a boy who, judging from the admittance of wrong interpretation given in the short glance from the apparent adversary to the hapless koala at the side of the battlefield, finds the situation curious but also begins to show a new sort of concern floating up from deep within.

Especially at seeing the I-told-you-he-is-weird look that manages to break through the spell of the physical contact, undaunted by the sharp punishing sideways scowl emphasizing the action has not gone by unnoticed.

‘Dude, calm down. I think Y/N is more than capable of making a choice of her own. Besides, she already has an appointment for a cup of coffee.’ Either Changkyun is braver than Sir Gawain in the fight against The Green Knight or more foolish than all the rich men that tried to capture Portia’s heart in Belmont in vain. Whatever the case, the words are clearly taken with offence. ‘After that, she is free to do as she pleases.’

‘And who are you to speak for her?’ The response does almost not sound human. Rather, it is more animalistic, the syllables growled instead of properly articulated. As by instinct, the hand holding a tight grip on the hip easily moves the small figure it holds further behind a broad back.

And it lets him because Red Riding Hood was also foolish enough to trust the Big Bad Wolf.

Nonetheless, this is not stupid because Namjoon is a safe haven.

A natural place to hide.

Trustworthy.

Known.

Protecting.

No, I cannot get lost in him. Not now nor ever. There is no forever. Not for us.

Another taunting threatening utterance does not need to be said to obviously mark it as the moment to intervene in the absurd cockfighting. After all, both parties were presumed to know better than fall into the kind of battles which should have been left behind in high school.

A barely noticeable though harsh tug at the sleeve beckons a reluctant listening ear. ‘Joon, you know who he is. I’ve told you about him many times. We’re just friends.’

Speech becomes increasingly and noticeably harder, gritted teeth diluting the following mocking phrase. ‘Just friends, huh? Then why does he look so hurt when you say that?’

‘I’m not! Look, man, you’re seeing things.’ Now the sonorous voice of the guy who dreams of becoming a rapper someday has gained the same double-edged sinister detail as Namjoon’s, also clearly ready to jump the gun if it is necessary.

‘Oh, so I’m delusional?’ In the time it takes to snap fingers, the guarding palm on the hip has fallen away and moulded into a fist like its trembling counterpart. ‘I’ll make you see things.’

‘Don’t.’ A swift hand on a smooth caramel cheek shifts the grey-haired man’s attention to the touch, fortunately evidently appreciating the soft caresses. Digits see the opportunity to entwine with the temporarily loosened would-be soldiers, thus taking away the chance for Instinct to really throw the mind into blazing red-visioned anger and a worthless scuffle. Drag the attached tall body away with whatever strength has been gained with hours in the gym if the situation gets out of hand, difficult as it could be. Perhaps the lasses will release bated breaths and find the courage to escape the tensity suppressing all sources of preventing help. ‘Don’t, Joon. You know better than this.’

With the wolf distracted by the gentle touches normally meant for lovers, the chance of addressing the oddly opposing party as well is taken. ‘Both of you. By Jaysus, you are grown men. Act like it. Changkyun, I really appreciate you standing up for me, but I’ll take it from here.’

‘Y/N, are you-’

‘I am, Kkung.’ Turning away from a comrade hands the self back over into careful surrender to the menacing poet who is no longer entranced by the soft to and fro movements on the freshly shaven suntanned skin. ‘Come on, let’s go, Namjoon. Lads, see you-‘

The farewell cannot be fully worded due to being pulled along to the exit, forced into endeavouring to keep up with the fast pace long strides put between the people who make academic life not all that bad and the promised place that will also function as a spot for a good talk about these outrageous circumstances.

The fresh breeze feels like a delight after the dusty smell of the long cold clinical corridors and warm tiny hallways crowded with students waiting for a lecture on the subject of years of study, immediately refreshing every jumbled oppressed thought before remembering being anchored to an ever-sailing ship which shows no signs of slowing down. Henceforth, feet stumble over the uneven reddish plum mixing with mustard yellow cobblestones, both colours occurring at irregular intervals, of the papal dyke and past the precariously situated aquamarine statue of the sole pope the Lower Countries has ever produced, towards the plaza where a divided church stands till this very day.

When almost tripping over the bronze outline of the Roman castle wall that stood there two-thousand years ago, the historic remnants forever resting beneath the surface in peace, a short yet powerful tug catches the captain’s attention. ‘Namjoon, hold on a minute, will ye?’

With one hand, since the other is caught in a grip that does not allow any sort of movement, the winter jacket lined with earth-toned wolf fur gone astray over the linen blouse and autumnal brown tartan treggings - messing up the outfit underneath so that it also has to be corrected - is made proper again. The leather bag relieved from its duty as a retail worker’s pack mule is slung over the shoulder instead of letting it sling from the crook of the elbow before eyes brave the animalistic snarl of the contemporary Ares. ‘What the hell was that about? Did you have to make a scene in front of my friends like that?’

‘Maybe you didn’t see it, but that “friend”,’ the word is spat out with as much venom as has crept into the voice of a koala turned into a mirror of the wolf suddenly treating her as a prey solely preserved from him, ‘clearly saw this as a step to something more valuable. Before he couldn’t ask you out because you always head straight home or have lunch with me, but now there was a very opportune occasion to ask you out. All you had to do was forget your wallet.’

Though strange sensations removed from the rage blazing like a storm inside at the humiliating display are provoked, the original anger cannot be entirely suppressed when continuing the verbal battle for the reasoning is absurd. After all, Changkyun is merely a pal asking another who is having an all but grand day out for a comforting beverage and to have a brief repose together. ‘It was only a fucking single cup of coffee! He and I are nothing more than friends and Kkung knows that. You know that!’

The laugh preluding a jeering response is mirthless, devoid of actual amusement and in its place filled with pure mocking. ‘Look at you, calling that dude by his nickname.’

‘It’s true, you bastard.’ A neatly shaped eyebrow raises sarcastically, unconvinced of the outburst at taking the credit of the truth for granted. ‘And that’s normal, Joon, calling people by their nickname. In fact, you and I do it all the time. I honestly see no other problem than you at the moment.’

‘How can you not see it? He’s not the man for you, ba- bear.’ The nickname that was given after the first night of laying side by side after being rescued from nightmares, clinging onto the strong arm wrapped around the waist while the other was draped around the shoulder with its fingers entangled in smooth ash blonde locks thus forming an apparent likeness with a koala, oddly forms a second option. Thoughts run wild with ruminations of the original pet name feeding the foreign emotions floating beneath the unforgiving menace of being made a fool of, momentarily calming the urging need to futilely wrap small palms around a golden throat to gladly strangle the life energies out of it.

Withal, surely the assumptions as to the hastily stopped intent are ungrounded for they are all inappropriate for calling a family member.

However, if the addressed person is alright with the chosen term of endearment and there is no technical blood-based relationship between the individual and the speaker, it should not be problematic.

A wishful empty hope.

A doomed daydream.

The silly fantasy of a stupid girl.

That is what it is, the Truth plain and simple: we are bound by a bloodless bond which is mercilessly deprived of a love that is craved so much in his presence.

As if the chance for the latter to be directed towards me has ever been present.

To not show the inner conflict deteriorating the mind and too stubborn to show surrender as of yet, the argument continues with as steady a voice as can be mustered. ‘Oh, he isn’t the right man? And who would be, eh?’

The painfully tight grip on the hand loosens and falls away entirely, rendering the tongue silent in wonder as hands remove the trench coat and the obsidian turtleneck underneath to reveal a bright crimson shirt of which the two top buttons are made undone to expose marvellously carved collarbones. A complete loss for words occurs when the piece of clothing is patiently handed out for the taking with the softened expression of the bear within that always occurs when being worried about something, a slight shake indicating to do so.

It would be taken directly without hesitation was it not for the inquiry about the sudden change of topic, also slightly indicating there is no need for an additional layer of clothes despite the joy always found in the comfort scented by the poet. ‘Why are you handing me your sweater? Put it back on or you’ll get a cold.’

‘I could say the same for you. Just put it on, that blouse won’t keep you warm.’ Teeth bite down on a plush roseate lower lip when noticing the top of the crisp white lace bralet peeking out from the bare opening similar to the fashion of the ruby shirt containing a chest rising and falling a bit faster with laboured breath.

The classy though suggestive piece miraculously found its way to the sheets of the bed after an afternoon of wandering the city together, during which eyes fell on the piece of lingerie but quickly averted to not make the grey-haired giant whose hand was first held then, small hand wrapped around the pinky, uncomfortable.

A day later, ensuing the return from a tiring linguistics lecture at the university and preparing to go to the gym, a paper bag containing the underwear sat neatly at the end of the bed without any message that could indicate where, or rather from whom it came. Not a second thought had to be conjured to know the story behind what was left clueless since it was not the first time it happened. The sole difference with previous instances is that it did not concern a book, shirt, dress or small note containing a song and its artist.

More than a second thought, however, needed to be conjured to dispel all the crazy fantasies following in the gift’s wake, especially due to the bond with the gorgeous Fox in the East.

Just a present.

Nothing but a kindness.

Simply one of many shown before.

Devoid of sensual intent.

Except for in the phantom play that followed under the twilight of a starless heaven in which the silver moon shone bright, conducted in as silent a fashion as was possible.

‘You’re wearing it.’ The tone suggests that the unconscious desire of being seen even has guided the sense of style for the day for only now does the impact of the choice become apparent to the accidental planner.

‘Do you- Do you like it?’ Although asked in a timid manner, the images flashing by of the sensual wanton morning accident are depleted of any sort of innocence. Instead, they empower the suspicion theorizing that if the choice of underwear had been discovered earlier on, all protest would have been disregarded and the secret longing been fulfilled regardless of the consequences.

If the unbroken gaze and low dangerous growl are anything to go by alongside trembling digits creeping toward the part of the body which was unintentionally explored before breakfast, Namjoon does approve of the most inner outfit. Withal, the dangerous glint also proposes a slight disapproval since it is obviously seen as a means of temptation for other men as well. Another cause to resume the argument, so it would appear. ‘Put the sweater on before the wrong guy sees you. What were you even thinking, going out dressed so minimally?’

‘Minimally? I’m not dressed like a prostitute, but more like the miss Fancy Pants you know I tend to be. Besides, so what if a man sees me? I’m single. Furthermore, what if he happens to be cute, eh? Would certainly shut Da up, constantly pushing me to get a boyfriend.’ Moreover, Heungji still forms the girlfriend of three years connected via digital lifelines despite Korea being miles away across the globe.

None of this should matter to either of us.

But it does.

Oh, how it does to a wolf and a hapless doe.

A more wrong response could not have been given, gritted teeth no longer proposing the offered dark turtleneck but demanding for it to be worn without offering an opportunity for refusal. ‘Put. It. On.’

‘Alright. By Jaysus.’ Secretly delighted at wearing one of the comforting pieces scented by peppery cologne and espresso, formerly with a hint of smoke, agitatedly the sweater is accepted after shedding the beige winter jacket which does a splendid job on its own of holding out the cold of the fairly harsh breeze. ‘Here, hold my coat.’

While fumbling to find the way in the oversized jumper, a pair of big trusted hands roam down the sides of the body briefly, exploring its details and committing them to memory while an indecipherable murmur outside the fabric sounds renouncing of something said earlier.

For a moment, there is an invisible delight in the forbidden touch, revelling in the entertainment of feeling it in other places and be mapped out entirely. Unfortunately, the action is cut short by a curt strong pull which reintroduces the gothic backside of the separated cathedral and entrance to the tranquil ancient gardens of the adjacent monastery lit by the bright winter sun shining in a rare fortunate clear sky. Slender long caramel fingers correct the ashen locks gone astray, running smoothly through them as they are lovingly pushed back in an attempt to reconstruct the style before the transformation into a further dishevelled heap instead of the fairly charming bedhead they were styled in.

An admiring thumb strays via the cheek to the mouth, running over a pomegranate bottom lip and abruptly coming to a breathless halt when it is instinctively enveloped. Carefully it tests the waters, seeking out the limits of the power that can be exerted, by sliding further in and pushing down the tongue a bit. Surprise colours attitude completely when it is allowed, though the flash of a satisfied smile tells of the emotions surfacing thanks to the rather controlling sensuous action.

It is wrong.

We both know that.

Nevertheless, neither makes a move to end this.

None of us wants to stop.

Whereas the induced trance does not permit speech in the case of the girl fallen into a spur of the moment which may come at a dear price - merely the clenching of thighs due to a lucid daydream - Joon breaks somehow manages to break the silent spell with a voice that has gained a new baritone timbre previously only accidentally heard in privacy behind the bedroom door. ‘You’re being such a little brat, aren’t you? Going against me, dressing in a way you know will make me jealous when others look and turn me on, trying to go for coffee with that “friend” of yours. It makes me want to-’

A silent reflecting second passes wherein mildness overtakes a sliver of mighty posture, nullifies it enough to alter the spoken words from their original version. ‘Why, Y/N? Why are you doing this to me?’

The cushiony meeting with only a fracture of skin shamefully ends, but the one between gazes continues, obedience unable to look away from the power finally directed at it. Awed yet scared of the implications of the inquiry, the boundaries are stretched a bit further beyond the unfathomable point they already are in the hopes of hearing what should actually be said to another girl far away from here. Direct whatever serves as a correcting of behaviour at her. ‘What are you saying?’

The intent is never stated, but considering the paradox of emotions storming in the grave though still undeniably jealous stare, it holds the middle between pain and mildness.

‘Stop playing games. You know what I mean. I don’t want to see you with anyone but-’ The rushed bitter comment is abruptly cut off, the speaker strangely appearing to stop himself in time lest something would have been said that should remain unknown. In its stead, a meagre replacement of the original intent forms a response lacking in conviction, still obviously retaining secrets. ‘Any man who sees you like this, the outfit underneath, I mean, they- none of them are- they’re just not good enough, Y/N. Lead by lust. Changkyun might not directly show it, but I’m quite sure he’s as well. You need someone who can provide for you, be there for you regardless of the circumstances, want you as you are.’

‘How would you know, Joon? You can tell me this, but be completely wrong. Furthermore, I know Kkung well enough to know lust has never nor will ever form part of his motives. What’s more, it’s my opinion which matters in deeming a person’s intentions and value to me. You don’t get to decide that because you don’t know. I choose my perfect man, not you.’ The former irritation is ignited and fueled anew, momentarily effectively suppressing the aftermath of the newly made memory that will undoubtedly form a source for fantasy in private loneliness, when the grey wolf turns around and heads further toward the plaza of the broken church and leaves the negative words in his wake. ‘Hey! We’re not done talking!’

For a little while there is no reaction, merely speed-walking flowing over in running to catch up, until the mute solemn poet is stopped by a stubbornly defying palm on the chest in the middle of the square, right where once the ship of the cathedral stood before a tornado blew it to smithereens. ‘I said we weren’t done. What is up with you? First what happened-’ A deep beaten breath accompanies the retreat of the hand under a flustered gaze, one betraying many things are left unspoken yet unable to be said for an unknown reason and another taken by awkward astonishment due to the rash action. Feeling a slight quickening in breathing at the touch.

The softening effect of the dusting of crimson painting the cheeks flows over in speech, knowing that more yelling will get the conversation nowhere if not circling around itself, continuously ending or beginning at the same point. Within the scattered fragments of weakened posture are gathered to revive the blazing phoenix, ready to gain answers from the one who turns her into ashes again and again. ‘First this morning and now this. You’re acting weird for some reason I don’t know about.’

‘You really don’t see it, do you?’ Hands clench into trembling fists, an outburst on the brim of full rosy lips stupidly longing to fight its way to the surface but oppressed into a snarling reply.

You can’t love me.

‘See what? All I can see right now is a person who is dear to me floating off to God-knows-where without telling me why, acting all agitated as their own judge when I merely reach out. Pray, tell, what’s up?’

You never will.

‘I simply don’t want you to be disappointed, but find a man who is right for you.’ The tone of regret makes a sudden appearance, nullifying the entire argument that is meant to put an end to the rekindled subject. Somehow bringing a stranger into two entwined lives would be a shameful unexplained happening.

However, the mind has taken on too much of a careless attitude to pick up on the significance it might hold for it tells more of all that is not said. Instead, eyes roll towards the sky, lips forming into a sarcastic mirthless smile. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, not this again. I can hardly believe this is why you’re acting so strangely. Yes, you had a difficult night but that does not excuse you from the matter because it forms no motive for what you did. Just talk to me, goddammit.’

Whatever occurred between the wolfish bear and the enchanting fox, the worthless koala is far removed from the private issues of the people depending on digital highways to remain in contact in order to keep the love alive.

But why do you sound contrite? I hate to see you so closed off, so removed from me. Namjoon, please. I know you hate fighting as much as me.

‘I am! And I already told you I’m sorry for what I did during breakfast. How many times do I need to repeat it before you believe it?’ Again, something is left unsaid as an indescribable tone leaning towards remorse finishes the half-yelled reaction. Fists stop trembling, fingers unfurling one by one and reaching out for the cheek of an uncomprehending girl turned into a mirror of his wolf within, shaking. But mid-air they fall away in fruitless resignation. ‘Please, believe me, bear.’

What aren’t you telling me?

‘Oh, you’re talking to me? Sorry for not noticing because it seems we’re continuously going back to a topic that explains nothing. However, since you appear to be so adamant about it, tell me who would be right.’ Regardless of the thought, the stubborn student within longs for a concrete answer to the question which has thus far only a precarious thesis as its reply without evidence to back it up.

There is no trace of the temporary warmth anymore in the gaze pinning down the opposing party, ready to spout out whatever has been wanting to be said and can no longer be contained. ‘You really want to know? Are finally going to listen for once?’

‘By all means, enlighten me. Who would be worthy?’

Ears go deaf after the utterance of a single word, Time standing still due to doubt about whether it is better to move forward, go back or remain a bit longer in curious revelling as Reality shrinks till it is confined to two people.

‘Me!’

[kbstories]

I tried my hand at some Mass Effect fic!

Summary: A mission confronts Shepard with his worst nightmare. Garrus and Wrex realize that even Shepard has his limits. (Chapter 1 of 2)

Set in Mass Effect 1 during the mission on Elodus. Warning for PTSD and one brief mention of past suicidal thoughts.

Read on AO3!

Shepard should have known.

The Mako's engine revved up as its wheels hit heavy silt, the rocky hills of Elodus giving way to the smooth desert-like expanse of a plateau, devoid of any living being and Shepard should have known.

He'd been listening to Garrus and Wrex bicker over their choice weaponry in the back, letting the now-familiar chatter on the com link wash over him as he focused on getting them to the structure on the distant horizon in one piece. Questionable driving skills aside, the Mako was still a handful to handle but he was getting better at it.

At least that's what Joker had assured him, with minimal smirking. Shepard'd take what he could get.

A dot on the radar marked their goal, blinking, getting steadily closer. Shepard kept glancing at it, trusting the device over the bland landscape around them, something about it setting his teeth on edge. There was no movement to be seen.

“– am I right, Shepard?”

“Oh now you're playing dirty.”

Shepard turned his head with a highly eloquent “Huh?” – judging by his squadmate's deadpan expressions, they'd both been counting on his opinion to win whatever argument they're having.

Wrex stepped forward, a grin tugging at his scarred face. “Just say biotics are superior. Nothing like bursting into battle head-first.”

Before Shepard could go beyond raising an eyebrow, Garrus shook his head sharply, clicking his tongue. “And get yourself killed, you mean? Be my guest – I can shoot well enough for the two of us.”

“See, that's the problem with you Turians. Always relying on tech to get the job done.”

Wrex laughed, Garrus bristled, Shepard prepared himself to interrupt–

And the Mako went flying, ripped off the ground as if it weighed nothing at all. Warning lights flashed, equipment shook loose, clanking, metal on metal – all the air in Shepard's lungs left him in a rush of gravity and vertigo; the belts keeping him in his seat dug into him hard enough to bruise but that was the furthest thing on his mind as they came down with a heavy crunch.

Finally the pressure on his chest lessened, a weak “Fuck” making it past Shepard's lips as the world settled around him, upside-down. Trembling hands searched and found the clasp holding everything together and once it was gone, he spilled on the roof like a box of tools turned on its head.

“Garrus!”, he coughed, picking himself up, straining his eyes to see in the sudden darkness around him. “Wrex!”

Someone groaned to his right, “Present. You alive, Krogan?”, and further away: “'m here. I thought you're getting better at this shit, Shepard.”

Ignoring the jab, Shepard's first instinct was to hail the Normandy. Static. Figures. Only local access, then. He readjusted the fit of his helmet before following the nearby wall with glove-covered hands until he hit the door, then started pushing against it. It didn't budge. Behind him: shuffling steps and the distinct sound of a new magazine sliding into place.

Garrus huffed. “Looks like we'll get to test that theory of yours sooner rather than later.”

The ground rumbled, swallowing Wrex's answering quip and shaking the downed Mako enough that Shepard practically felt every bone in his body rattle with it – and a dawning realization made his pulse spike, blood running cold with the instant panic rising within him.

Because he recognized this feeling. It's the same that haunted him in his dreams, the same that had announced the beginning of the end all those years ago.

Shepard should have known.

Power gathered at the palm of his hands and before Shepard could think about it, the door exploded with a blast of biotic energy. “Move!”, he yelled over his shoulder, barely waiting long enough for his squad to make it outside; Shepard turned and threw up a shield just in time to hold off the worst of the debris bursting around them.

“What is that?”, he heard Garrus growl, saw him and Wrex pointing their guns at the phantom hidden in sand and dust out of the corner of his eye–

Shepard didn't need to look. He reached out, grabbed and jerked Garrus' rifle down, “We gotta get out of here”, he said hoarsely, darkness dancing at the edge of his vision, drained from his biotics or fear or both yet adrenaline still sang in his blood, kept him going.

There's no time to check the look in Garrus' eyes, the flash of confusion and indignation enough for Shepard to know retreat was the last thought on the Turian's mind, no time for careful strategy, for second-guessing.

“We have to run”, Shepard repeated, louder over Wrex's angry “What?!” – and Garrus yielded, just as a high-pitched shriek pierced the very air around them–

And for the first time since Akuze, Shepard stares into the opened jaws of a Thresher Maw.

It all goes to hell faster than Garrus can blink.

Suddenly, they're running. Garrus is dimly aware of the insistant tug of Shepard's hand clamped around his arm, of the blurred blue of biotic shields building and falling around them, of Shepard's strained pants over the com link. Wrex is only a few paces behind them, a mass of reds and browns and seething rage, cursing under his breath so colorfully Garrus' translator chip simply gives up.

Their boots sink into loose sand with every step, burning the energy they could put into standing their ground and fighting instead. Garrus chances a glance at Shepard, wishing he could see his face beyond his helmet but the glimpse he gets makes his gut drop.

Whatever that thing is: It made Shepard, vanguard fighting machine Shepard, bail instantly. That alone makes the soldier in Garrus swallow his doubts and follow his lead.

It seems to have the opposite effect on Wrex. They bypass a formation of jagged rocks – perfect for cover, Garrus can't help but think sullenly – and the Krogan's patience snaps. “What the hell, Shepard?!”, he bellows, breaking a path through the sand like it's the front line of a hostile army. Shepard says nothing.

A few paces are spent in silence, alerting Garrus to the sudden lull around them; looking back, he sees the worm... creature is gone, the horizon once again plain, unassuming dust. Garrus feels Shepard's grip on him tighten. He noticed it too.

“Not yet”, he hears him mumble, almost to himself, “not yet.”

Then the very desert under their feet trembles, shifts, breaks apart–

“Wrex, shields!”

–and Shepard's words start making a lot more sense. Even with two people fueling it, the biotic field around them shudders visibly, flickering out after a second or two – enough to get them out of the immediate blast zone, if just so.

Gaze turned skywards, Garrus's heart almost stops as the creature towers over them. He's never seen anything like it on Palaven. Does it even have eyes? All he can make out is it's huge jaws, gaping and empty and dripping with–

Garrus acts on pure instinct. Diving for his squadmates, he tackles Shepard to the ground and makes Wrex stumble, too; a spurt of clear liquid flies over their heads, close enough that a few droplets land on Garrus' back.

He doesn't pay attention to the burning sensation running up his spine, doesn't stop to worry about the dazed way Shepard's crawling back on his feet – Garrus grabs his Commander, throws him over his shoulder and runs, trusting Wrex to follow.

No matter his previous grievances with Krogans: they can take more hits than anyone in a brawl. Even if that brawl includes a hundred-foot monster in the middle of the desert.

The enraged screeches of it only spur Garrus on. He can feel Shepard struggle in his tight grip, hissing at him to “calm down, Commander” as respectfully as he can; “there”, Shepard snaps back, gloved hand pointing past Garrus' head to the left where the slopes of a mountain range meet sand.

“The mountains, huh?”, he hears Wrex's gruff voice behind them. “Keep going, I'll keep that acid shit off of you!”

Protest is halfway out Garrus' mouth yet it's Shepard who goes ballistic, biotics running hot enough that Garrus can feel it through his armor.

“No! Wrex–“

Wrex bares his teeth, “Shepard”, full of warning.

“Do not engage. That's an order!”

A glob of acid splashes on the ground. Garrus side-steps it in the last moment. “Can we save our asses first and then talk about details?”

“Just trust me”, Shepard growls. Wrex doesn't reply.

They don't stop until their boots hit rock.

Shepard slides off Garrus' shoulder the moment they do, all kinds of dizzy and disoriented, waving away Garrus' attempts to steady him. What he needs right now is solid ground under his feet and some space to think.

His hands are trembling.

The panic he's been holding back since the Mako is a tight coil in his chest, slowly spreading out. Not yet. He can feel the others' eyes on him, painfully aware how weak he must seem to them: This is not the Commander Shepard we know, he can almost hear them think.

The memory of his therapist is blurry, one vague face among many by now but he still remembers her calming tone of voice. Breathe. Shepard does. Forces his back straight, balls his hands to fists.

His amp port is numb with pain. He'll deal with that later.

“Shepard.”

He closes his eyes in the privacy of his helmet. “Wrex”, he sighs, turns around to face him.

Wrex looks like he's doing some holding back of his own, cracking his neck, shifting weight, crossing his arms. “Care to explain?”, is what he comes up with, jaws tight.

Shepard rarely sees him so... fidgety. It's clear he's furious – having to back down from a fight does that to a Krogan – yet Wrex listened to his orders when it counted the most, and Shepard knows he owes him for that.

So he nods, “Yeah”, calls Garrus' over from his silent watch over the horizon. A sudden chill runs down Shepard's back as he's reminded why that might be necessary. Threshers rarely hunt outside their territory, however, and Shepard counts on that fact now just as he did during their rushed escape.

They make themselves comfortable on a nearby slab of rock; Shepard sits down heavily while Wrex paces. Garrus stands to his right, a steady presence in the corner of his vision. He's tinkering with something – his com link, Shepard recognizes with a quick glance.

No more distractions. His squad deserves to know the truth.

“Six years ago I lead my first mission for the Alliance.”

His words are hesitant, and Shepard hates himself for it, hates the fact that what should've been a cornerstone of his career is the reason he can't wear the title of Commander with pride. He stares ahead and sees the arid planes of Akuze, hears the hushed conversations of his marines around him.

“We'd lost contact to one of our colonies and my unit was sent to investigate. Found the settlement empty, colonists gone yet no bodies, no sign of violence... So I told 'em to set up camp in the dunes. No point in searching at night, right?”

A mirthless chuckle catches in Shepard's throat. Wrex's gaze is on him. Shepard holds it for a long moment.

“That's when those things attacked. Woke up to complete chaos around me, made it out in time to see them just... tearing the camp apart.” Wringing his hands, the dry noise of plating on fabric distracts Shepard from the memories that bubble up like bile. He looks down, swallows heavily around the lump in his throat.

“The smell, the– the screaming, I'll never forget it. Went through a unit of fifty marines like it's nothin' and we didn't even know what hit us. Never encountered Thresher Maws before so we didn't know about the acid and, well.”

Others might've been forgotten but Shepard remembers every name, every face of the squad that set foot on Akuze with him. Writing the condolence letters had taken weeks. It was the only way to honor them for their sacrifice.

Shepard exhales slowly.

“Turns out they don't follow you forever. Dragged myself to the LZ and got the hell out of there... I was the only one who made it back.”

Wrex has stopped pacing and even Garrus is motionless. There's more he could tell them: of the months and years he spent wishing he'd died with them, how much he hated it to be hailed as a hero for his biggest failure.

In the end, Shepard settles for: “Doesn't matter if we could've taken that thing on. I won't let it happen again.”

Then he falls silent, out of words to say. The silence stretches on, lingers – follows them persistent as a shadow as they board the Normandy hours later. Shepard goes through his post-mission duties on autopilot: skips the med bay by pointing Dr. Chakwas towards Garrus, writes up his report, takes heat from the Alliance brass for losing the Mako. The three migrane pills he's dry-swallowed knock him out eventually.

Hours later he gasps awake with the afterimage of melting flesh and torn limbs burned into his eyes. He spends the rest of the night puking his guts out, the bathroom door firmly locked behind him.

To be continued

[AO3 Link]

[apokaluptein-archived-blog]

tainted || closed starter for corruptedkey

@corruptedkey

Monsters came in many shapes. From the conglomerations of pure darkness, to the evil of men's hearts, monsters took many forms. They came in sharp edges and vicious fangs; they came in bright colors too vibrant and sickening; they came in dark whispers and empty promises. Driven almost unanimously by a need to bring everything down into the dark with them, they came for all.

Just as he had done.

Veni clenched his hands, half-expecting talons to still rip open his tender palms. But the only sensation was the pressure of leather gloves tightening against his skin, and the blunt tips of round, human fingers in his palms. Human. Normal. The sensation and his repulsion by it were both disconcerting--and he couldn’t decide which was worse.

He should be happy, right? Wasn’t this what he had wanted? To be whole again? It wasn’t like he’d wanted to ever be that . . . thing. And it was what he . . . no, what Vanitas had wanted. To be whole. He--Vanitas--had wanted that, and he was here now just like he’d wanted. But at what cost?

Leather creaked as the blond’s grip tightened around phantom throats, and his eyes squeezed shut as another flood of memories assailed him. Break and shatter and rend and tear, tear, tear it all down. All of it! She breathes ragged, cutting air and rains sorrows, but he wouldn’t listen. Wouldn’t hear, wouldn’t care. Down into the deep, deep dark all would go, just like him-- “I can show you fun,” said that wicked cheshire monster to the wild Rabbit.

The memories spun in circles, but whether it was only for a few minutes or for a few hours, Veni couldn’t tell. It felt impossibly long, almost as long as if he was in the Realm of Darkness and its timeless labyrinth again, and by the time he came out of it, his fingers ached from holding on so tight to nothing. Other parts of him ached, too. New bruises would surely color his neck and arms in just a few hours, and he’d need more bandages for his arms again.

Was this really what he had wanted...? Lights, what a right fucking mess he was. It’d be so much easier if he’d just--

No! No, oh, sweet lights, no, he couldn’t--

But why not? It’d be better than remembering and caring at least.

. . . He needed to get away from here. He needed to get out, somewhere away from this Heartless-infested hell of a world, find someone--anyone--away from here. Veni shivered with a dreadful chill as something whispered from within his own heart even more reasons to let go again, and he practically leapt to his feet in defiance. Just move, he told himself. Move away from here, find somewhere else to be--no one else knew what he’d done, what he’d become, and no one would have to know--

But the only way to leave was by embracing the darkness again. The keyblade had rejected him. Not the darkness, though, never the darkness--it would always be there, ready, waiting. All he needed was to just--

“Shut up!” Veni snapped at no one in particular--though for a moment he could have sworn he heard a snicker as silence rung around him again.

He swallowed hard and turned on his heel, walking with purpose through the ruined and crumbling castle all around. The structure was clearly new, with the many confusing and esoteric technological contraptions that wound around its exterior, but it looked so much older with its ruined, crumbling walls and rotted interior. Darkness stained deep into the stones, living decay that spread like disease, and it webbed like mold over the floor beneath his feet. And what wasn’t half-rotten was barely intact, usually marred by burns or deep gashes of some kind.

The Heartless had done a number on this place. The ravages of the darkness marked clearly what this place and all within belonged to, and the blond felt an increasing sickness deepening in his gut.

“Sora died here,” the savage beast crooned, arms spread as wide as his ever-present smile. There was a laugh as it twirled once in place, but the sound was mirthless and hollow, and little more than an automatic reaction. He smiled at it with a vicious grin all the same, though, intrigued by its tale and enticed by the twisting wraith spinning it. But the bitter words were not nearly so sickening as the venom the beast fed him when it pinned him to the wall.

Veni flushed faintly at the memory and felt his gut twist further, all too keenly and too suddenly aware that this was the same place as that day. Sora. . . . Oh, how dizzying the name was in his head. Should he be angry? Should he be upset? Should he be sad? Should he take pity? Just the thought of the beast was enough to stir up a storm--and for a moment he thought he heard a familiar cackle as he meandered his way into the main hall.

Hairs rose on his neck, and Veni tensed, golden eyes furtively searching for something dangerous and dark in the murk. Lights, don’t let that be what he thought it was. Don’t let it be that thing. His heart pounded with terror, and in the beginnings of a fevered panic, he stumbled as he hastened down the steps. Laughter echoed somewhere from the darkness again, louder and closer, and Veni bit down a terrified sound. He knew that laughter--but how could that be? How could that be, here, and now? He couldn’t be--

“Ah!” Veni yelped as his foot caught on something, and he went crashing to the floor. The impact slapped against his back and rattled his teeth a bit, and he hissed in pain. Get up, urged his rising panic. He couldn’t let a stumble slow him down--he couldn’t let it catch up! But he’d been far too long without flesh and blood, and the impact was more dazing than it should have been. Disoriented as he was, Veni forced himself up all the same, breathing hard as he looked around yet again for danger.

What he saw, however, was the last thing he could have ever expected.

For a moment, it was like Xehanort was imprisoning him in ice all over again. A freezing shock encased his every muscle and nerve, his head aching as memories shot rapid-fire through his mind. There was a desperate fear that stopped his heart and kept it pounding all at once, and something he couldn’t name that pulled him in eight different directions all at once.

Hair tufted in messy spikes framed a youthful face, an unusually peaceful expression drawn there. Lean limbs splayed out over the ruined floor, human hands and their soft, rounded tips lazily splayed outwards at nothing. It felt warm against Veni’s leg. But it was . . . wrong. The hair was a rich shade of cocoa brown and so soft-looking, and not at all the harsh, coarse black it was supposed to be. The skin was lightly tanned, warm and colored with life and melanin instead of the foreboding, haunting grey and marbled shadow it normally was. Nothing seethed off the other’s body, no ink or acid aura wisped away from his form.

It was Sora. Without a doubt, it was Sora, but . . . human, somehow. Like him. Veni stared a long moment, doubtful of what he was even seeing as his heart continued to race, and he quivered as his thoughts jumbled so fast they came to a stop. Fear, curiosity, relief, anger, fury--so many emotions and more wiped blank his mind and numbed his heart in complete shutdown. After another long moment, he jolted away from the brunet and scooted back several inches.

Sora was here, and he was human. But the longer Veni stared, the less real it seemed, until finally against his better judgment, he tentatively reached out for the other youth. His hand made solid contact with the other’s warm body, and Veni stared, mouth agape with shock as he slowly realized the reality of this fact. His hand moved without thought as he struggled to process it, tracing over the brunet’s arm, then shoulder, then finally up to his face and hair where it lingered a moment before moving back down to cup his shoulder. Veni gripped it probably more tightly than was necessary, wracked with palpable fear once more as an all too familiar sound that was more memory than phantom shrieked in his ears.

“Sora...?” he whispered, and he was surprised he could even speak at all. Veni swallowed what saliva hadn’t dried away in his mouth, and licked his lips before repeating himself. “Sora? C-can you....are you....please wake up. Please, please, please wake up...”

[samwhambam]

Exaltation

Hi guys! I posted a new fic on AO3! 

Here’s chapter 1:

Oliver was fiddling with the bible in his hand, watching the second hand on the clock as it slowly made its way to 7 pm. Each minute that passed was another minute closer to youth group starting which meant it was another minute closer to it being over. Oliver knew the drill, everyone came in, grabbed a bible and a chair then sat in a large circle. Then they’d be split into smaller groups, assigned a verse and the discuss it before all coming back together and talking about life’s temptations and ways in which they reject Satan.

Oliver did his part, playing the card of religious son. Then once his parents went to bed, he’d plug his headphones in to his phone and wank to the dirtiest porn he could find for free. He had gotten his Wednesday nights down to a routine.

But lately, youth group had gotten a little more interesting. A minute before it was supposed to start, he walked in. He walked in, in all his devilish glory and Oliver’s mouth ran dry. Oliver tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help himself. When he bent down to grab a bible from the bottom shelf, his black jeans stretched deliciously across his ass. And then he was up and Oliver could enjoy the way his black v-neck was showing off just a hint of his chest and the sparse hairs that were growing.

Oliver finally looked away when the leader called out demanding their attention. He fixated on the bible in his hands, counting to 10. The desire in him was still burning strong when he finally looked up. Sitting directly across from him was Connor Walsh and he was looking at him. Oliver quickly looked away, his cheeks burning. It had finally happened, Connor had caught him staring and he needed the earth to swallow him whole so he could escape the embarrassment. It only got worse when they had to count off to be separated into smaller groups and he realized that he was in a group with Connor.

They all shuffled their chairs until they were in their smaller circles. For whatever godforsaken reason, Connor pulled his chair next to Oliver’s. Once Oliver was situated, Connor scooted his chair an inch closer. Oliver could smell Connor, the mixture of his body wash and deodorant sent Oliver into a frenzy. When he stole a glance at Connor, he was looking at him again. Connor winked and Oliver was convinced that Connor could see the dirty thoughts rolling through his head.

They took turns reading the passage out loud. It was about a man who had turned down numerous advances of a married woman who later lied and spread the rumor that he had taken advantage of her in order to get him sent to jail. Or, it was something like that. Oliver wasn’t sure because Connor had lost his page early on and leaned towards him, trying to get a look at the page number Oliver was turned to. His arm had brushed Oliver’s and the body heat made his whole body clench. All he could think about was that small bit of skin and how soft and warm it was and fuck, what everything else felt like.

And then they were discussing the verse and Oliver couldn’t come up with a modest two cents to throw in. Everyone else was talking about this man’s faith and how he gave up his life to live in God’s image and all Oliver could think about was Connor fucking him into the altar into the church. He wanted to feel that cool marble against his cheek as Connor plowed into him fast and dirty. He wanted to grab on to the edge as Connor threaded fingers through his hair, pulling sharply on it.

His daydream was cut short by Connor’s voice.

“I mean, it’s great and all that he devoted his life to his faith. But, he still got fucked in the end. If he wanted to say yes, he should’ve. Life is too short to rob yourself of fun.”

And Oliver was done.

He followed Connor out that night as everyone shuffled out of the center. The soft black of the leather jacket was draped across Connor’s shoulders and Oliver felt the inexplicable need to run his hands up Connor’s back while licking a line up the leather.

 When they reached the door, Connor pulled it open, stepping aside so Oliver could pass through. Oliver couldn’t help but give Connor one last look over.

“Good night, Oliver,” Connor followed him out the door, a smirk carved onto his features.

“Night,” It was an exhale, a quick exaltation before he ran across the street.

 It was only once his mom was driving away that he was able to breathe normally.

He spent that whole night exploring his newfound leather kink with the image of Connor Walsh painted against his eyelids.

*

The week came and went and Oliver found himself sitting in the same chair as the week before holding a bible again. And again, Connor Walsh walked in a minute before it started. This time, Oliver kept his eyes on him. He watched as Connor paused after grabbing a chair and noticed his eyes skimming the circle, bouncing from one person to the next, starting at the person to Oliver’s left.

This time, when Connor sat down and looked up, Oliver didn’t look away. Connor raised his eyebrows at him before looking around the circle. Oliver’s eyes followed. They were counting, both of their eyes jumping from one person to the next. And then Oliver landed on Connor and the realization dawned on him as a smirk grew on Connor’s face. They were in the same group. Again.

Oliver was blushing a dark red when Connor brought his chair over next to his. He sat even closer and Oliver couldn’t concentrate at all. The Italian leather of Connor’s boots caught his eye and he couldn’t help but be intrigued. All of Connor’s articles of clothing looked expensive. Too expensive for an 18 year old. Oliver took a chance, sneaking a look at Connor’s face. He was clean shaven, different from last week when he was sporting a light stubble. His hair was still styled, a messy pompadour that Oliver wanted to run his hands through.

It wasn’t fair. He had zoned out, throwing in very few comments to aid in the discussion. He couldn’t even pay attention to anything that came out of Connor’s mouth. It was an hour and a half long pep talk. Today would be the day that he would talk to Connor. A real conversation. Today would be the day that he would look him in the eye, speak to him, and not think of a new sexual fantasy.

After the clock finally hit 8:30, Oliver was up and stacking his chair quickly. Before he could reach the bookshelves, Connor was in front of him, holding his hand out.

“Bible?”

And then Oliver was melting. He stumbled over his words before slipping out a quiet “thanks”.

“See you next week, Oliver,” Connor was smiling at him. Oliver smiled back before turning to leave.

He was waiting outside, leaning against the hard brick of the outside of the center. His mother was usually early, waiting for him in the spots right in front. But she wasn’t. She had sent Oliver a quick text, saying she’d be there. Everyone was trickling out and the street was getting dark with the absence of head lights.

“Hey, you need a ride?” Connor was by his side. Oliver hadn’t heard him come up. He thought he had left.  

“No,” Oliver pushed himself off the side of the wall. “My mom is on her way, but thanks for asking.”

“It’s no problem,” And then they were standing there with Oliver knee deep in embarrassment and Connor rolling a rock underneath his foot.

“This shit sucks,” Connor broke the silence, laughing slightly as the tension began to fade.

“Youth group or the conversation? Because youth group sucks and you’re just intimidating,” Oliver mentally slapped himself when he registered what he just said. He had spent so long thinking of what he would say if Connor ever approached him and this was not it. Oliver had always had a quick tongue, but usually it spit out something self-deprecating. This was another level that he didn’t realize he had.

“Youth group, but I’ll take the intimidation factor as a compliment,” Connor had finally relaxed, moving closer to Oliver. “Some guys think it makes me tall, dark, and handsome.”

“Oh,” Oliver was blushing again and he wasn’t sure what to say next.

 “My grandparents threatened my parents out of the inheritance if they didn’t have me try to pray the gay away,” Connor was smirking again, a dangerous twinkle in his eye as he moved closer. His eyes skimmed over Oliver’s body. “Didn’t think I would like it, but the eye candy makes it worth it.”

And then Oliver couldn’t breathe. Of all the possible scenarios he thought of, this never seemed like a possibility. He didn’t know what to say, or do. Connor was looking at him so intently and he could see a light blush appear across Connor’s cheeks. He could see the insecurity start to cloud Connor’s eyes. There was a doubt there, like Connor may have mistakenly interpreted their little dance.

“The eye candy never hurts,” Oliver’s voice was a smooth drawl. It was as if Connor’s insecurity ignited something in Oliver. The thought that Connor may want him and would try to pursue him but might be held back by Oliver not being forward enough, caused something to click in Oliver’s mind. He was flirting and it almost seemed natural. “My mom’s here. But, I’ll see you next week. I’ll make sure to wear something pretty.”

“Can’t wait!” Connor called out as Oliver started making his way to his Mom’s car.

Oliver’s mother was rummaging through her purse, talking about how a friend of hers wanted to give Oliver a late birthday gift. In the time it took her to find the card and hand it to him, Connor was driving past them.  

The image of Connor, tall, dark and handsome in his car ignited a spark in Oliver. It was shiny and black and everything that Oliver expected out of Connor Walsh’s car. He could picture the black leather seats that the car was bound to have and he couldn’t shake the image of Connor Walsh with his face against the back seat, hands behind his back, with Oliver plowing into him. The phantom sound of skin rubbing against the leather sent him into a daze and he ran into the house as soon as his mother parked their car in the garage.

*

Oliver was washing his hands, head down, watching the bubbles form as he rubbed the soap into his hand. The door to the bathroom opened behind him and he looked up. His eyes met Connor’s as he stepped into the bathroom. Instead of making his way over to the urinals, he stopped inside the door, leaning against the wall.

They held eye contact for a beat before Oliver stood up completely upright, turning off the water.

“Wanna skip today? I can bring you back before it’s over, or give you a ride home after youth group would be over?” Connor broke the silence. His eyes were calculating, watching Oliver dry his hands.

Oliver weighed the decision carefully. He wanted to go. He was intrigued by Connor. But, he was a rule follower. He didn’t skip class or lie to his parents. He was good, could never hurt or lie to anyone. He was Oliver Hampton. And maybe that was why he should go. He had to admit, it didn’t help that Connor was the one asking him.

“Come with me.”

 And then Connor was next to him. He picked the wad of paper towels out of his hand and looked over Oliver once. Starting at the worn converse on his feet, skimming the straight legs of Oliver’s jeans. He paused, spending an extra beat at Oliver’s lap before he continued. The last thing Connor wanted was for Oliver to not pick up what he was putting down. The light blue of Oliver’s henley met the flushed skin of his neck. The internal war was clear in his eyes and Connor smirked.

And that was it. Oliver didn’t want to ever say he was easy, but the interest in Connor’s eyes made it hard for him to say no. The smirk that promised a good time didn’t help either.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” Connor waited a beat before continuing. “But I did come to the bathroom with the intent of utilizing the urinals. Passed by the leaders in their office talking about how today was the talk involving same sex marriage and the church’s teachings. And I would rather spend this time in the outside world with the potential to blow someone. Rather than sit there and listen to it.”

And Oliver was sold.

Before he could think about the consequences he was following Connor out the side door of the building and opening the passenger door to Connor’s car and sliding in. He was right, polished leather coated the seats which whined in protest as he sat down. Oliver slid his hand along the edge of the seat, reveling in the smoothness of the seat. The low purr of the car’s engine did something to him and he could feel the beast in him being unleashed.

“Have you ever fucked someone in the back seat?” Oliver wasn’t sure why or how he asked, but the question slipped out of his lips before he could stop it.

Connor turned to him, eyebrows raised, a twinkle in his eyes and a large smile gracing his face.

“No, actually. You offering?” There was a wiggle of his eyebrows and Oliver couldn’t help but laugh.

“No.”

“That’s a shame. Milkshakes?” Connor was tapping on the steering wheel to the beat of the song playing softly in the background and Oliver was beginning to think that it didn’t matter what his answer was, they were getting milkshakes. 

“Sounds good.”

They were in the drive thru when Connor turned to him.

“So, some of the people there… they’re intense,” Connor was chuckling. “I knew what to expect, but I thought that shit was only in the movies. You’re my voice of reason there, Oliver.”

“I don’t say much,” Oliver shuffled in his seat, pressing his back against the door.

“You don’t, but it’s the look you give everyone when they say something judgmental. It’s refreshing,” Connor pulled the car up as everyone shifted forward. 

“I had to grow up with them, I’m used to it,” Oliver shrugged. “Started actually reading the bible a few years back, just to give me something to do when I zoned them out.”

“How’s that been working out for you?”

“Made me gayer.”

Connor was laughing as he pulled up to the window.

They were sitting in Connor’s car in the parking lot behind the youth center with 30 minutes until Oliver had to be home. The sunroof was open and their seats were tilted back. Their milkshakes were left abandoned, half finished, in the cup holders.

“I can’t understand how you don’t like mint chocolate,” Connor sat up, grabbing his milkshake and taking a long draw from the straw. “It’s so good.”

“It’s disgusting,” Oliver reached out for his, which Connor handed to him without a word. “I’ll stick to my oreo shake.”

“Wait, so do you not like thin mints?” It was asked with such skepticism that Oliver couldn’t help but laugh. Connor removed the straw, sucking a chocolate chunk out of the bottom of the straw. He swore as shake dribbled down his shirt and onto his pants before he could shove it back into the to go cup.

He scooped it up and before he could lick the ice cream from his finger, it was falling again, landing with a splat on the seat. Any nerves that had stuck with Oliver since getting in the car were gone. Every ounce of intimidation that Connor held over Oliver was gone and he suddenly felt less derpy.

“They’re almost as bad as orange juice with pulp,” Oliver commented before putting the cup back and settling back into the seat.

“You’re the devil in disguise,” And then Connor was laying back too, one leg bent underneath him and the other resting on the dashboard.

The conversation had started off friendly, there were a lot of questions from Connor. Idle chit chat about school that led to a flirty banter about hobbies and then eventually back to youth group. 

“Make out with me,” Connor’s statement tore Oliver’s gaze off the sky.

“No,” Oliver was smiling as he looked at Connor.

“Okay,” Connor smiled back before he turned his body to face Oliver. “You have great self-control. I’ve caught you checking me out plenty of times.”

“Well, you’ve weaseled your way into my group plenty of times so I don’t think you can ding me on that,” Oliver turned to face Connor.

 “That’s true.” Connor laughed burrowing his face into the seat.

A comfortable silence engulfed the car as Oliver closed his eyes. This was nice. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this softness from Connor. He was envisioning something rough, a hot and heavy make out session that would go further than he had been intending. Not milkshakes and staring at the sky through a hole in Connor’s car and the need to stretch out the moment. A gentle understanding had settled over them as they settled into their seats. For once, Oliver wasn’t the horniest teenager alive.  

“Make out with me?” The question cut through the air again, causing Oliver to look up at Connor again. Then Connor’s finger was tracing the edge of Oliver’s hairline and he couldn’t fight the reflex to lean into it.

Oliver wasn’t sure why he said yes, but he did. Maybe it was the torn look in Connor’s eyes, like he wanted to, so badly but there was a hint of fear. Maybe it was because he just flat out wanted to.

Then Connor was moving, grabbing Oliver’s seat and hoisting himself gracefully over the gear shift. He was straddling his hips, hands on either side of Oliver’s head, lips an inch from Oliver’s.

“Are you sure?” The words tickled Oliver’s lips and he knew he was fucked. He was under Connor’s spell and he was pretty sure his life was over.

Oliver closed the distance, pressing his lips softly against Connor’s. It was gentle for a beat before Connor shifted, leaning against his forearms, his hands gripping the edge of the seat above Oliver’s head. They were closer and Connor took the kiss deeper. Oliver shifted, pressing his hands against Connor’s knees before running them up his thighs. His fingers caught on Connor’s belt loops before curving around Connor’s back and resting up near his shoulder blades.

Connor pulled away, a shaky inhale filled the car as Oliver sat up slightly, following Connor’s lips. Connor chuckled as he sat on Oliver’s thighs, the latter’s hands slipping down to cup the top of Connor’s ass.

“Fuck,” Connor breathed out before slipping his jacket off. He wrapped a hand around the neckline of Oliver’s shirt, bring him completely upright.

The kiss was urgent. Closer to what Oliver was expecting. It was short. Their lips a millimeter apart before Connor shifted, kissing him at a new angle. One hand had sneaked into Oliver’s hair, the other smoothed out Oliver’s shirt before rubbing his shoulder and ending on his bicep. The next kiss was hard, a little rough and Oliver groaned. Then Connor’s lips were barely on his and his teeth were scraping against his bottom lip. Oliver lost it when Connor tugged on his lip, his lips slipping through the loose hold Connor’s teeth had on him.

“I wanna blow you,” Connor was panting above Oliver. The words seared Oliver’s nerves, spreading a new warmth across his skin. A surge of electricity coursed through him.

Oliver glanced at the clock on the dashboard, shaking his head slightly when he remembered the car was off. He pulled his phone out from under his leg. Checking the time and groaning when he realized they had to leave within 5 minutes to get him home at a reasonable time. Oh, so responsible Oliver.

“We don’t have time,” Oliver leaned back, letting his head fall against the seat.

Always so, so responsible.

“Fuck, okay,” And then Connor’s lips were on his again, kissing him hungrily.

He nipped at Oliver’s lips before soothing them with his tongue.

Then Connor was peeling himself off of Oliver, and Oliver could feel Connor against his thigh as he moved off of him. Connor’s breath was ragged as he somehow made it back into his seat. He leaned back, digging his fingers into his thighs, trying to ground himself with the bit of pain.

“One more for the road?” Oliver asked, leaning sideways, closer to Connor, pursing his lips slightly.

Connor took the bait, removing his hands from the keys in the ignition to grasp the back of Oliver’s neck, pulling him closer. This kiss was softer, a cool down from their previous activities. 

“It’s going to happen soon,” Connor murmured as he pulled away, sitting in his seat fully and turning on the car.

“Oh is it?” Oliver chucked as he fixed his seat. The sexual tension that had been buzzing through the car had dialed down a bit as they went back to their casual conversation. However, the energy was still licking at Oliver’s fingers. An itch that he couldn’t scratch with the need to run his hands all over Connor while he had him there.

“It is,” And then Connor was sending a grin his way as they left the parking lot, barely beating the group of teenagers leaving the building.

They were getting close to Oliver’s house, Oliver giving halfhearted directions back to his house, when Connor placed a hand on Oliver’s thigh. The touch was light, a soft caress that shifted, running teasingly across the seam of Oliver’s jeans in his inner thigh.

“I don’t think I can walk in and past my mom with a boner without her noticing. So, don’t move your hand closer,” Oliver warned as Connor turned onto his street.

“We can find out?” Connor suggested with a laugh as he pulled up to the house Oliver was pointing to.

“Nope!” Oliver unbuckled his seat belt.

“Honestly, give me five minutes and we’ll be good!” Connor called out as Oliver got out of the car. “Can I have your number at least?”

After exchanging numbers, Oliver was walking up his driveway when his phone ‘dinged’ in his pocket. He laughed at the message a simple eggplant emoji before entering his house. He made his way up to his bedroom, thankfully without an interception from his mother. He was changed and settled into bed with his laptop when his phone ‘dinged’ again.

A picture message popped up. It was a picture of Connor in dim lighting, cheeks flushed, cheesy grin and a thin sheen of sweat covering his face.

 ‘I just jerked off in my car a block away from your house. Hope you have a good time. Text me if you need me. ;)’

Oliver shook his head, clearing his head of the fleeting thought of sending a message in reply. Tonight wasn’t the night. He was going to draw this out.

[404botnotfound]

The Line [6]

…and where to draw it

SERIES: Destiny WORD COUNT: 7,026 SHIP: Quinn/Drifter CHARACTERS: quinn leonis (AU), glyph, kel, luke, roland, nyx-14, ikora rey

vi. noumenon

n. (in philosophy) a thing as it is, independent of any conceptualization or perception by the human mind; a thing-in-itself, postulated by practical reasoning but existing in a condition which is, in principle, unknowable and unexperienceable.

................................................

Something is wrong.

Even before her eyes open, she knows something is wrong. It’s an overpowering gut feeling, a sickening twist in her stomach that comes into her awareness long before the blaring klaxons that seem both deafening and murky as though she’s hearing them underwater.

Fire crackles nearby. Her eyes blink open, and some system within the cell blocks in her sight spurts gouts of flame.

She knows this place.

The cell blocks are a dead giveaway, the repurposed Fallen architecture utilized by the Reefborn Awoken her next clue. The Prison of Elders stretches high into the distance above her, so high it fades into a foggy haze. Funny, she doesn’t remember the Prison being this big.

Dazed, Quinn pushes herself off the rubble she’d been laying in, looking around and wondering how she’d gotten here.

The Prison is in ruin, raging fires in pockets all around her as she takes in her surroundings. Pathways in the distance and high above are collapsing or twisted in the explosions and heat—under her feet the catwalk she’s on shudders, and she dives to the next only seconds before it collapses into the open chasm below.

There isn’t an enemy in sight. The intact blocks are empty, and she can see no explosions, hears no gunfire or angry roars from the Prison’s usual Cabal, Hive, and Fallen captives. Just the fire and echoing alarms and an odd shunk, shunk, shunk through the unnatural chaotic stillness of the air.

Her throat constricts with unease. “Petra?” She calls, uncertainly, wondering why Glyph isn’t with her and why she isn’t armed. “Nik? Kel? Cayde?”

No one answers her.

They’re supposed to be stopping a massive prison break. They need to be in contact, need to be coordinating—why aren’t they answering?

With urgency, she heads for the nearest bulkhead. The door is caught on a sheet of metal driven violently through it, mechanisms still attempting to close and resulting in the odd noise she had noticed before.

She slips through the opening with a warp, moving blind without Glyph to guide her through the damaged cell blocks and levels—down, down, down. Calls go out for her allies at intervals, her voice growing more frantic with the persistent silence that answers her.

“This is a Cayde riff in 6,” she hears Cayde say from somewhere ahead of her, and her heart jumps into her throat for a reason she can’t identify, “watch for the changes and, uh...try and keep up.”

The teasing statement that’s just so Cayde should make her laugh. An echo of her own laughter rings off the walls that blur past her, but her mouth doesn’t move, and all she feels is an inexplicable dread. Her skin prickles with déjà vu.

All but sprinting through the halls now, she recklessly leaps down through gaps in the block levels to reach the end faster—the end? Why does she think it’s the end? Why does it feel like one?

Her footsteps make no sound as she runs. The blaring klaxons have faded. Fire roars silently around her, explosions devoid of riotous noise.

In the massive chasm that spans the center of the Prison, the command center from the top of the structure, spouting fire and leaving shattered debris falling after it, plummets so quickly and so silently she only knows it happens because it’s happened before.

Her panic spikes, realization crashing through her like a tidal wave.

She’s not moving fast enough, and her muscles are already straining with how hard she’s pushing herself.

The block ahead of her is barricaded with flame and rubble, so she changes course and dives through a break in one of the cells into the innards of the Prison. Ahead of her is an open gap between rows and rows of cryopods and individual cells tower above and below, the grated bridge she’s on collapsing into the dark below.

Without hesitation, she throws herself off of it and she falls,

falls,

falls.

The drop should break her legs, shatter every bone in her body and leave her crippled or dead, but instead she falls to her knees with shaking limbs, swearing at herself for the time she spends stunned. She needs to keep going.

“Cayde?” She calls out, frantic now as she pushes herself to her feet and stumbles forward.

Turning down a long hallway, she sprints directly for the bulkhead that strikes her with dreadful familiarity. Faster, faster—but the hall stretches and stretches and for every step she takes it seems she only moves an inch ahead.

Muffled sounds of a raging fight reach her from beyond the door, the familiar cadence of an unmistakable gun and feral shrieks and howls making her heart pound with terror.

She’s so close. She can make it this time.

A silent sob bubbles in her throat at the sound of a guardian’s explosive burst of charged light.

“Help me out here, little buddy,” Cayde’s voice, unsteady and weak, comes after a delay.

The door opens as she reaches it, time seeming to slow as she takes in the sight before her. Fiery rubble of the central command station from the top of the prison, the destroyed cell blocks, the eight hulking figures of the Scorned Barons on the landing above, and all the scrap-armored bodies of what had once been Fallen.

Cayde, standing in the center of it all. His back is to her and his shoulders are slumped with exhaustion. He holds his left hand out as his side; Sundance appears in a flicker within his upturned palm, her white and yellow shell shimmering like a beacon in the dim light.

Quinn bolts forward, opening her mouth to cry out in warning, but no sound leaves her.

A single, deafening shot echoes.

Sundance shatters.

Light explodes outwards from her destroyed shell. Quinn skids to a halt, holding her arms up to block the blinding light that washes over her and leaves her sick with despair.

When the wash of light fades and she lowers her arms, she’s met with another dim interior, fluorescent lights lining the edges of sharp angles, grated metal catwalks, and solid bulkheads. It’s some kind of bay, stretching into the distance, so far she can’t see the end.

She’s in a ship. It feels familiar, but she can’t place why.

Farther down from the raised catwalk she stands on is technology she’s also familiar with—a Vex gate, altered from what she’s seen on Io, Nessus, Mercury, and Venus. It’s empty, but she feels a power radiating from it that doesn’t belong.

What’s it doing here, on a ship?

“You gonna go or not, darlin’?” The Drifter’s voice cuts through the low thrum of ship engines muffled by the hull of the ship, and though he hadn’t been there a moment ago she’s somehow not surprised when he steps up next to her.

Go? She thinks, Go where?

But she knows what he means. She’s not sure how, but she does.

Anger pulses through her as Sundance’s death replays in her mind, as the distant feeling of Cayde dying in her arms brushes like a phantom over her skin. If she jumps through that gate, will it take her to Uldren? Why does he have it?

“Don’t let his death weigh on you.” He says, voice echoing more than it rightfully should within the acoustics of the bay. “Somewhere out there, someone’s got a bullet with your name on it.”

She frowns and looks to her right, but the Drifter is gone as though he’d never been there at all.

Orange light flickers from a hall near the rear of the bay behind her, warm and almost inviting. It’s tempting to go that way instead, but—

—her eyes return to the gate, and with clenched fists she takes a step forward. Then another, and one more, until she breaks into a full run down the catwalk and leaps through.

Space dissolves around her and the ship vanishes, her vision going blank and the feeling of nothingness gripping at her limbs and pulling, pulling, trying to stop her from moving forward. Trying to trap her in the empty in-between of existence and nonexistence.

She fights it, and with an eruption of color and sensation reality coalesces around her.

The new space she finds herself in is a direct contrast to the dark interior of the ship, open and blindingly bright.

She’s standing in a flat open desert of pure white, hard and unnaturally geometric stone, dusty ground bleached of all color and spanning far and wide. The sky is clear, dark blue and sparkling brilliantly with stars. On the horizon is a massive planet, almost entirely eclipsing a star that peeks over its edge.

It’s utterly, unsettlingly silent around her. Even when she steps forward, expecting the sound of sand sifting or stone crunching under her boot, she hears nothing.

Ahead of her is a massive spire, an inverted pyramid made of the same snow-white stone that makes up the thin path before her. A thin sheen of gold cuts a sharp line through its rigid geometry, odd circular symbols with lines cut through them engraved into the surface.

It floats above the ground, and Quinn finds herself drawn towards it.

how did it come to be here?

WHAT A THIN LINE IT TREADS.

Her steps falter, the words an amalgamate of voices within her head that sends a violent shiver up her spine. Whatever spoke feels vast and unfathomable, beyond her understanding. Incomprehensible, speaking in tongues that she shouldn’t but somehow does understand.

The whisper of claws, so razor-sharp she imagines they can cut through the very fabric of reality, brushes across her back, and she goes rigid.

Run.

Inhaling sharply, she moves forward and puts on as much speed as she can, trying not to think about how whatever it is following her easily keeps pace. Faster, please, go faster, she needs to go faster.

c a n i t s e e?

++NO, IT IS STILL BLIND++

A massive pit appears before her, right below the point of the inverted spire. What is she running from? What is she running towards? Her chest heaves with exertion, boots still utterly silent in the empty landscape.

The only sound she hears, save for the terrifyingly eldritch voices in her mind, is the howling vortex coming from within the pit ahead.

W H A T W I L L I T C H O O S E?

She leaps from the edge of the pit and falls into the hungry whirlpool of light or darkness below, the current dragging her violently under, filling her lungs and drowning her with viscous eternity.

 Her eyes open and she sucks in a desperate gasp of air, her heart racing and skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

Above her is no roaring flame, no broken Prison, no ship bay, and no impossibly silent alien world—just the bland, familiar sight of her bedroom ceiling. A fan rotates lazily, the soft whirr of it only noticeable thanks to the quiet of the room.

She stares at the spinning blades and counts her heartbeats until they’ve slowed to a normal pace, letting her eyes close; her hand lifts from under the warmth of her blanket and fingers thread into her hair.

Is she going to open her eyes to the sight of a beaten and battered Cayde again? Will he be standing in her room, blaming her for not reaching him in time? For not helping him? For not doing what she should be doing—for not hunting Uldren down?

Her stomach churns.

This isn’t the first time she’s dreamt of the Prison of Elders and not the first time she’s relived Cayde’s death, but it hurts just as keenly as the first. She swallows and fights to push away the despair curling like black smoke in her lungs.

Don’t cry. You’ve cried enough.

She still hasn’t decided whether or not watching Sundance’s final operational recording had been a good idea. Was it better to have never seen how bravely and how hard Cayde had fought in his last moments, or having seen it and knowing that in the end it had all been for nothing?

The nightmare always ended there, right as Sundance died. This is the first time she’s ever experienced more beyond that bright flash of a dying ghost’s light, and she’s not sure she likes it any more than the rest.

It’s just stress. She’s driven herself to the point of exhaustion between weeks of restless sleep and unhealthy loss of appetite and weight—combine that with Gambit and willingly subjecting herself to the Taken while competing in it, all of it is nothing more than stress induced delirium.

Already the Drifter’s words and the faceless voices she had heard are fading, the images growing indistinct and murky. Just nightmares, nothing more. Kel had told her to ignore them, and so she does.

She doesn’t even remember getting back to the Tower after leaving the Drifter’s ship yesterday, let alone making it back to the team’s apartment or even into bed. Is she still—yep, still wearing her pants and the sleeveless undersuit from her armor. At least she’d had the sense to ditch the armored coat and boots before climbing into bed.

The hope that driving herself to the point of exhaustion with Gambit would keep her nightmares at bay is apparently falling short. She’s already pushing herself beyond her limits, and if even four Gambit matches in the three weeks since the first isn’t doing it, how much harder is she going to have to force herself before it does?

Arriving home with no memory of the trip and more than a handful of mortal close calls in just five matches; Glyph would have a fit if she tries to push for more frequent matches. It hasn’t stopped trying to talk her out of participating, but its efforts had gradually lessened over the last few weeks.

It doesn’t like the game or the Drifter, and she knows that every time she steps onto the Derelict it’s terrified for both hers and its own life, but every time she tells herself that she should stop—if for no other reason than for its well-being—she can’t bring herself to do it.

It’s helping, even if not in the way she had hoped.

While she’s never been a slouch in the field, she’s starting to see why Shaxx utilizes his Crucible as a training ground in addition to the morale-boosting spectator sport. After just a few Gambit matches, she can feel her skills honing. She’s getting quicker at thinking on her feet, her reflexes improving through necessity, her aim sharper and more instinctual. 

She still hasn’t figured out how to recreate the intoxicating rush of power from her invasion in the first match, or even what it was, but aside from all of that, the competition was helping her feel better.

Her smiles are still paper thin and nowhere near as bright as she could manage before, but they’re coming more frequently. The Taken, too, are bothering her less and less with every match. They no longer send her into fits of panic, and she’s able to brush off the skin-crawling discomfort of their presence easier.

The latter two effects are likely the only reason Glyph’s attempts at talking her out of the game had lost their vehemence and it had stopped threatening to tell Nik or Kel.

“Was it the same?”

Her eyes open and she turns her head to the side, seeing Glyph floating above the surface of her nightstand and blinking at her worriedly. Letting out a breath, she sits up and swings her legs off the side of the bed. “Yeah. I never make it in time.”

“You know it’s not your fault, right?” It says, drifting closer. “There wasn’t anything any of us could have done.”

“I guess.” She winces at the flat response. She wishes she could at least fake not being so cynical for her ghost’s sake, but she disagrees—she could have been faster, could have gotten there quickly enough to shield them and maybe Cayde would still be here.

It stays quiet, waiting, but when she doesn’t offer more it fills the silence. “There was more to it this time, wasn’t there?”

She hesitates before answering; telling it outright that the Drifter had shown up likely isn’t going to do much more than provoke its ire at him. “After Sundance died I was on a ship. Then I jumped through a Vex gate and was on...I think a different planet. Some kind of big, white desert with a huge floating pyramid and a pit that I jumped into. And voices.”

“Voices?” It blinks, shell spinning in surprise. “You mean aside from—?”

She nods.

“What did they say?” It asks.

Would’ve been a great question to ask her a few minutes ago when the nightmare was still fresh in her mind; her brow furrows, and she strains to think of what she had heard as she ran through that strange, alien planet. “Something about being blind, I think. Probably just my subconscious telling me to knock it off, right?”

It lets out a disapproving beep at the wry smile she gives it, flitting over to the other side of the room when she stands to change out of her armor and into something casual. “You already know I don’t like what you’ve been up to lately.”

“Do you have any better ideas for how I should kill time while Prince Fuckwit is out causing problems we could easily put an end to?” She demands.

It says nothing for long enough that she shakes her head and resumes dressing. “The Festival starts today.” It says, quietly.

Her breath catches. She’s seen the banners and decorations being strung up over the past few days, multi-colored string lights and altars of candles set up around the Tower. She’s been trying to avoid thinking about it. “I’m really not in the mood for cider and jokes.”

“You can at least participate in the events and games.” Glyph follows her as she leaves the room, its voice insistent.

A haunted forest is usually set up within a large garden down in the City, and many guardians and civilians alike participate by running around with gaudy or funny masks. There are parties, contests, and hunters gather to tell scary stories to small crowds. Candy and laughs are traded, and sometimes a game of ‘keep away’ happens when a hunter appears with one of the soccer balls that keep inexplicably popping into existence in the Tower.

Or engrams—Cryptarch Rahool had been sent into a fit a few years back when he’d found a group of hunters and titans playing hacky-sack with an engram he had yet to decrypt.

None of it sounds palatable to her, and at the very least she knows she’s in good company. Kel hadn’t ever shown interest in participating in the Festival for as long as she’s known him.

“I don’t want to.”

Glyph huffs. “Cayde wouldn’t want you to mo—”

Someone leaps out in front of them, yelling and waving their arms wildly, with a ghastly mask of a Fallen vandal covering their face. Both Quinn and Glyph freeze in surprise, blinking silently at the figure.

“Hi, Quinn.” Luke says from behind the mask, voice cheery as he wiggles his fingers. His blue-shelled ghost, Gibson, bounces and laughs at their reaction behind Luke’s shoulder.

Her expression falls flat. “Hi, Luke.” She steps around him and proceeds into the living area.

Kel sits on the couch by the coffee table, one of his sniper rifles partially disassembled and parts set in an orderly fashion on the table’s surface; he’s still the only one on the team that manually cleans and cares for his guns, and they had yet to figure out why.

Near the front door stand Nyx and Roland, the former fiddling with what looks like a mask featuring Rahool’s face and the latter standing near her looking surly.

“Festival starts today!” Luke falls into step with her as she moves into the kitchen, voice muffled until he lifts the mask onto the top of his head. “You’re coming with, right? We’re gonna try to spook Ikora. Well—I am. And then we’re gonna go check out the forest.”

“I’d like to avoid a bigass shotgun to the face, but thanks for the offer.” Quinn replies, ignoring him as she looks for something to eat. An apple’s good enough, right? She doesn’t feel like putting forth the effort to make anything.

She probably should—she’s tiny enough already without the unhealthy weight loss. It’s gotten better over the last few weeks, but she’s still too thin for her own tastes.

Her shoulders lift in a shrug at the thought and she bites into the apple, still studiously ignoring Luke as she leaves the kitchen. She’ll find something to eat out in the commercial area later.

He follows her, looking dejected by the response, and she tries not to feel bad. “C’monnnn. Even Roland is coming!”

“Not by choice.” The aforementioned hunter grouses, leaning away from Nyx when the exo swats at him.

Nyx huffs with a flash of her jaw light and returns to putting the final touches on her mask with Kessler’s help. “Don’t be such a grouch. You’re worse than Kessler.” Her ghost, in retaliation, smacks into the side of her head with a metallic tink, and she laughs.

Quinn drops down into an armchair near Kel. “I don’t really feel up to it, Luke.”

Across the room, Roland’s dark eyes narrow on her at her response, and she silently begs him to not mention that she’s been borrowing his ship to leave the City. A sigh of relief is barely bit down by her when he drops the suspicious look.

“Okay,” Luke sighs dramatically, slouching as he steps over to where Nyx and Roland wait. “But if you change your mind, you have to let us know!”

“Sure.” She has no plans to change her mind.

Satisfied with the bland answer, Luke leaves. Nyx slips her mask on, grabs hold of Roland’s cloak—he’s just like Kel, never seeming to enjoy being out of his armor—and then drags him out the door with her, leaving just her and Kel alone in the now quiet apartment.

Echo, with her black and pink-spotted shell, appears next to Kel after that, floating down towards the weapon parts Kel is meticulously putting back together; she catches sight of Glyph floating next to Quinn’s head.

Both ghosts freeze—and then with a bright chirp, Echo darts towards Glyph. The two of them take off, flitting rapidly around the apartment in a ghost version of a game of tag.

Kel pauses with his hand hovering over a piece of his rifle, joining Quinn in watching the two ghosts play with an air of amusement. “They’re more in the holiday spirit than you are,” he says after a length.

She looks over at him, watching him work. He’s quiet, patient, and much warmer and more open than he had been once upon a time, but his entire demeanor is still reserved and careful. She frowns. “I don’t really have a lot to be spirited about.”

“You’re alive,” he points out, glancing up at her with an inscrutable look. “You’ve got friends. Your team. A companion that cares about you even though it’s under no obligation to be yours. That’s nothing to be spirited about?”

“Cayde’s dead.”

He hums low in bitter agreement, slapping the rifle’s magazine into place. “He’s dead, and nothing’s going to change that. Not dwelling on it, not hunting down the man that killed him, and not hiding from people that care about you or hoping that something else will erase the fact it happened.”

She goes still at the look on his face. Does he know? It shouldn’t bother her if he does—it’s not like he handled Gil’s death any better, from what she’s heard.

“I’m just...I need the space, Kel. You should know what that’s like better than anyone,” she finally says, using the excuse of throwing her finished apple in a nearby waste bin to break his stare.

Hadn’t he disappeared for a month after Gil was killed in action? Longer than that, still, since he’d left immediately after helping rescue her from the Dreadnaught. It had been two years since anyone had seen or heard from him when he finally returned during the Red Legion invasion.

His lips twitch as though he knows what she’s thinking, and he reaches for the last remaining piece of his rifle. “Distance can be more self destructive than reaching out for help. There’s a difference between isolation and grieving. Took me almost two thousand years to learn it.”

Glyph and Echo stop their game and drift back into the room. Echo flits down to Kel when he props it up on the floor for her to scan and return to his inventory. She lets out a soft trill and then flashes out of sight.

“Take my advice as your friend,” Kel stands, looking down at her with an expression that softens the usually hard edges of his face, “and don’t wait that long to figure it out yourself.”

She blinks at him as he moves for the door, speechless not only because she has no idea what he means but also because of the open display of emotion. Even when with her, that doesn’t happen. “Does the Vanguard need your help again?”

He pauses at the question. “No. I’m going to go enjoy the Festival.” His features are obscured by the helmet Echo transmats over his head, and he leaves without saying anything else.

She’s not sure how long she sits there in stunned silence, trying to process everything that had just happened. Between his advice, the studying look he’d given her, and then admitting he’s going out to enjoy the festivities—

In all the years she’s known him, Kel’s gone out of his way to avoid nearly all social events within the City, to the point where he grabs as many solo operations as possible to get away from the City during them.

He still keeps his distance from people, disappearing at infrequent intervals to be alone—where the hell does he get off, telling her to stop avoiding people?

Why is everyone so insistent that she just stop being so upset that Cayde is gone? That she needs to stop dwelling on it and go laugh and enjoy things as they are, as though nothing is wrong? How can she when the bastard that killed him is still on the loose?

“Quinn.” Glyph’s voice draws her out of her suddenly furious thoughts just in time for her to realize that her face is wet.

She lifts a hand and swipes away the tears that had fallen, upset with Kel and upset with this stupid fucking Festival and pissed at herself for crying because she’s angry—who the fuck cries because they’re angry?

“I was doing it again,” she snaps, her voice cracking. “I know.”

Damnit, and she told herself that she would stop lashing out at her friends. Inhaling deeply to try and steady herself—to no avail—she opens her mouth to offer it yet another apology.

Glyph is only staring at her silently, shell twitching slowly without any indication of agitation or hurt, and the apology dies in her throat. She sniffs and blinks away the tears threatening to build up in her eyes as she stares back, not sure what to say and unable to guess what it’s thinking.

It looks away from her for a moment as though in deep thought. “Open your hand?”

The request catches her off guard. Frowning, she lifts her hand and holds it out in front of Glyph. A vision of Sundance briefly overlays Glyph’s white and blue shell, and she closes her eyes to force it away—they open again when a light, solid weight drops into her open palm.

It’s the Drifter’s jade coin.

“I can’t force you to stop playing Gambit, and I don’t know how to make things better or help you move on.” Glyph says quietly, open warmth and support through their odd bond accompanying the earnest look it’s giving her. “I don’t think Gambit or the Drifter have the answers you’re trying to find, but it seems like it’s at least helping to clear your head. I’ve got your back. No matter what.”

Her anger fades entirely, and she presses her lips into a thin line to fight back an equally powerful but opposite swell of emotion. She’s so tired of these ups and downs, but she’ll gladly take this softer melancholy over the restless fury. “I don’t deserve a friend like you. You know that, right?”

Glyph’s attitude lifts and it bobs once, shell spinning with cheer. “Yes, well, you’re stuck with me. So, deal with it.”

“I’d give you a hug right now if I could.” She laughs weakly.

“It’s the thought that counts,” it says, upbeat demeanor dimming slightly. “Just...try to let your team back in, okay? They’re all worried about you, like I am.”

The small smile that had made its way onto her face fades. Her eyes drop to the coin and she twists it between her fingers, trying and failing not to question the statement.

If they’re so worried about her, they certainly aren’t acting like it. Luke is as optimistic and cheerful as ever, Nyx hasn’t bothered to ask her how she’s doing, Nik is wary of her, she doesn’t expect Roland to change enough to ever feel comfortable checking on her state of being, and Kel had just lectured her.

They’re all carrying on as though nothing had changed after the Prison of Elders. Any initial upset they’d shown when Zavala had first put his foot down is gone. It’s like none of them care that Cayde’s killer is running around, well-deserved retribution and justice completely ignored.

Is she the only one that won’t shrug and put it behind her?

If they’re so worried about her but won’t do a damn thing to bring justice to Cayde’s murderers, then they’d damn well find a way to convince Zavala to allow her to join Petra in the hunt for Uldren and the Barons. She’ll do it alone.

The Vanguard hiding his death from the City is insult enough before letting his killers run free without consequence. Ikora had been right—refusing to do anything is nothing but cowardice.

She stops worrying the coin in her hand and pinches the edges between her thumb and index finger, lifting it up to the light and staring at it with her thoughts twisting. The Drifter had made an appearance in a dream that, until now, hasn’t changed since she’d first begun to have it.

Is something significant about that, or is she just a lost idiot desperately searching for more meaning to keep herself occupied? She’s not sure.

Curling her fingers around the coin, she stands. She’d like nothing more than to avoid going out into the Tower for the next week straight until the Festival ends, but just as it had when she’d gone hunting for the source of Gambit, her mind had fixated and she needs to get it out of her system.

Glyph blinks at her as she moves past it, following her out as she leaves the apartment behind and makes her way down the stairs to the exit. “Should I let Luke know you changed your mind?”

“No.” Her steps falter when she steps out of the block and a small breeze alerts her to how quickly winter is approaching—she had apparently slept all day, as well, the sun having already fallen and doing nothing for the rising chill.

The fact that the others had left to join the festivities should have been her first clue how many hours she had wasted asleep considering most Festival of the Lost events didn’t occur until later in the evening.

She adjusts her jacket and continues onward. “I don’t want to participate.”

“Then why—?” It blinks, then, when it realizes where her sudden energy and drive had come from, it flits ahead and keeps pace with her, floating backwards so it can stare. “You’re going to talk to him?”

“You said you weren’t going to stop me from doing it,” she points out.

Its facets retract around its eye in a sour look. “I said I couldn’t, not that I wasn’t going to try.”

“Why are you so sure I should be avoiding him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” it replies dryly, slowing and flashing out of sight, ‘maybe because he runs an illicit activity without Consensus approval that can and probably has gotten guardians killed. You didn’t trust him when you first met him, why do you now?’

When had she ever said she trusts him?

The grouse remains a silent thought that she’s sure Glyph can still read within her, but she also has no answer for it.

At some point over the course of a few weeks and a handful of Gambit matches and short interactions, she had decided that—weird and smarmy attitude aside—the Drifter has no malicious intent. A bit detached from things he shouldn’t be, but she doesn’t get the sense that he’s got some kind of evil archvillain plot schemed up like Glyph seems to think he does.

It doesn’t press the issue when she remains silent, but it does leave a few pointed blips of clear disapproval in her head as she makes her way through the Tower towards Drifter’s hidden corner of the bazaar.

No one pays her any mind as she weaves through the crowd gathered for the Festival and ducks into the dark alley.

Drifter’s not in his usual spot when she arrives, and the doors that usually stand ajar behind him are closed. “Glyph, is he in there?”

‘We’re in a light-cloaking field.’ It replies flatly.

Her nose wrinkles. “You could tell he was a guardian when we first met him.”

A huff is its response. ‘No, he’s not in there.’

She knows he can’t be here all the time—unlike Shaxx, he doesn’t have 55-33 frames to monitor his matches. Still, he’s never been absent any other times she’s stopped by to check in for  match. Gee, she thinks to herself, tone deadpan even within her own head, it’s almost like he’s hiding from people.

Alright, so Glyph may have a point.

She leaves the alley, stopping when back out in the bazaar and looking around at the people, guardians and civilians alike, happily chatting with each other and horsing around under the influence of the event’s good cheer while masked figures run amok, occasionally stopping to trade candy or jokes with others.

She’s not sure what to do. Go look for the Drifter? He may be back on the Derelict and hosting another match of Gambit somewhere in the system for all she knows. She can return to the apartment and just go back to sleep, but she’d already slept for what had likely been more than ten hours.

Candles and multi-colored lights bathe the Tower and festival decorations in cheerful atmosphere. Eva Levante had once told her that the Festival of the Lost and the Dawning are meant to commemorate lost loved ones and lift spirits, a reminder to all that in the darkest of times, a smile and some cheer can make all the difference.

Everyone else seems infected with smiles and cheer. Quinn is not.

Glyph hadn’t finished its statement earlier, but she knows what it had been about to say—and she knows that it’s right. Cayde wouldn’t like seeing her mope like this, but she honestly can’t seem to find her good cheer.

If she was a moon, Cayde had been her sunlight.

“I was never fond of this particular holiday.”

She twists around, startled, and finds Ikora Rey standing next to her. The tails of her white and purple robes shift in the autumn breeze and her dark skin shimmers in the light of the festival decorations. She stands tall, her hands clasped behind her back and her dark eyes roving over the gathered, happy crowd with a muted kind of contentment.

“Perhaps it’s just me,” she continues, the words she speaks smooth and carefully selected as with nearly everything else about her, “but trying to pay respect to those lost with pranks and candy seems… irreverent. And we have lost so many this past year and a half.”

Quinn says nothing, standing next to the Warlock Vanguard and crossing her arms to ward off the chill.

A small smile appears on Ikora’s face. “But everyone honors death differently. This was Cayde’s favorite holiday. ‘Best way to honor someone is to keep smiling,’ he’d say.” She pauses, the smile turning impish. “The year before last, I believe he gave Eris a box of licorice, but it had celery inside instead. She didn’t think it was nearly as funny as he did, but then again he had been wearing a mask of her at the time.”

Her expression twists in bittersweet humor; she remembers him telling her about it. He’d been laughing uproariously as he recounted it to her and a few other hunters down at the Tipsy Sparrow. It hadn’t been that funny, but his joy over it had been infectious and they’d all been laughing, too.

Cayde had that effect on people.

And she’ll never hear his laughter again.

Swallowing thickly, she tips her head back to stare up at the lights strung around the higher levels of the Tower, pretending the sting in her eyes is from how bright they are. “Did you need something, Ikora?”

Ikora steps forward and turns so that she’s in Quinn’s line of sight, projecting authority that tells her it’s time to pay attention. “I’ve been made aware that you’ve been breaking lockdown to leave Earth.”

Quinn goes deathly still.

“Zavala has yet to find out.” There’s no threat in her stance or tone. Just cool, detached fact. “I won’t tell you not to disobey the Vanguard Commander’s direct order, but I want you to be aware that the Vanguard cannot offer you aid should your ventures off-world go beyond… what it is you’ve been up to.”

She looks away, but Quinn gets the feeling that she isn’t quite finished yet, so she stays quiet.

“I meant what I said when you and your fireteam returned from the Reef. Refusing to do anything about Cayde’s death is cowardice, plain and simple. I’m bound by my duty, but I want justice for him as much as you do.” She says, fixing her with a heavy look. “Should you choose to seek it out against clear orders, just know it will be without the support of the Vanguard and the City.”

In other words, Quinn would be completely on her own. She’d be going rogue, and if Uldren’s death brought with it the threat of war with the remnants of the Reefborn Awoken, she wouldn’t be offered refuge within the City’s walls ever again.

She’d figured as much already, but having it laid out so plainly… 

Unable to find words, Quinn simply offers Ikora a nod of acknowledgement.

Ikora returns it, her expression softening around the edges and her eyes turning contemplative. After a lengthy pause, the words she speaks are given with a melancholic, motherly tone. “Be careful of how far into your grief you fall, guardian. Some lines, when crossed...you can’t come back from them. There are those that will take offense and won’t care what your reasoning is for taking that step.”

Silently, she watches as Ikora steps away and disappears into the crowd.

Then her eyes blink wide and the crowd falls out of focus.

Should your ventures off-world go… beyond what it is you’ve been up to. Ikora’s words imply that she knows exactly what Quinn hasn’t been getting up to, despite the fact that she has no way of knowing that she isn’t high-tailing it to the Reef to hunt the Awoken Prince.

Does she have one of her Hidden assigned to her and reporting back?

“Glyph,” she speaks up quietly as her ghost flashes into sight, “have you noticed anyone following us lately?”

It blinks in confusion. “I don’t think so. Why?”

She doesn’t answer, her mind whirling with confusion. There’s no way what Ikora said could be mistaken—the Warlock Vanguard’s speech is always methodical and carefully constructed, even when steeped in emotion and not cold logic.

But if Ikora knows she’s been breaking Vanguard protocol and orders by bypassing her lockdown using another guardian’s ship, the question becomes: why hasn’t Zavala been made aware of it?

“Earth to guardian?” Glyph says, bobbing within her line of sight.

“Sorry, buddy. I’m…” She blinks her daze away and looks at it, but her mind is elsewhere. She needs to talk to the Drifter, still, but it’ll have to wait until she can find him. “Can you get in contact with Luke and find out where I can meet up with the others?”

Its shell spins with joy and it floats alongside her as she wanders into the crowd.

Whatever affirmative it gives her is lost as her focus dips out again, her sudden change in plans having less to do with how she feels about it and more to do with wanting something to pass the time while she sorts through her thoughts.

If Ikora knows about her leaving the planet, does she also know about the Drifter and his illicit competition? If she does, why hasn’t the Vanguard already put a stop to it?

There are those that will take offense and won’t care what your reasoning is for taking that step.

What is that warning even supposed to mean?